Nonplussed
by Sendai
Summary: Three years after TRF, Sherlock returns. John and Sherlock must face the final and most dangerous member of Moriarty's criminal conspiracy. John and Sherlock also adapt to each other as they realize their feelings have grown over time. Johnlock and eventual slash because I can't help myself. Rated M for language and later violence and possible adult situations. Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1 Moving On

**Nonplussed**

Rated M for violence, language, and implied adult themes (including slash)

A/N Yes this is yet another Return of Sherlock post TRF. Yes it is Johnlock, because I can't help myself. This is my second attempt at fanfiction, and reviews and constructive criticism are devoutly to be wished. In fact, I have tried to use the helpful criticism that I received from my first fanfic to improve this one. To begin with I will be uploading chapters separately for easier reading (thanks to firevithrol for the advice.) Hopefully I will receive more helpful advice to keep improving my Work.

Disclaimer. Obviously I own nothing but my imagination and this laptop computer. Holmes, Watson and almost all the other characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and more recently to the BBC and S. Moffat and M. Gatiss.

**Nonplussed**

Nonplussed. Adjective: 1. (of a person) Surprised and confused so much that they are unsure how to react. see also John H. Watson. The dictionary doesn't actually state see John H. Watson, but it should. My picture should go with the definition…

**Chapter 1 Moving On**

As usual, my day started in the middle of the night with a horrible dream. As usual in my nightmare, I stood helplessly and watched Sherlock die horribly. This dream was only remarkable in that I got to relive being shot in Afghanistan and lose my best friend in the same dream. Chalk one up for efficiency.

As usual, I was too miserable to go back to sleep, so at 0230 hours I went jogging. At 0420 hours, I returned to 221B Baker Street sweaty and tired. I didn't have to try to be quiet because Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her cousin.

The morning proceeded in its usual boring routine. Shower. Get dressed. Go downstairs. Make tea. Put the extra tea mug away. After three years I still pull out two mugs? Really? Pathetic. Make toast. Drink the tea. Take two bites out of the toast. Throw the rest of the toast away. Pack up the briefcase and head to class or work depending on which day of the week it is.

Today was Wednesday. Oh how apt, Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe. Wait I've moved on. The world thinks I am happy and content with my busy life. No woe for me.

Smile for all the nice people John.

So I was at Uni all morning. Only five months until my doctorate in Forensics is complete, whoop-de-effing-do. Oops, negative thinking slipped out, again. Think positive and all your troubles will disappear. Don't forget to smile.

After class, I went to work at the yard from 1400 to 2000. Of course I was stuck tutoring, I mean working, with Anderson again. Oh well it's better than going back to the empty flat. Yes my life is so boring that I count working with Anderson as a positive.

Time for my patented fake smile. Just tilt my head a bit, and force a grin. No one can tell it's fake.

I spent a couple of hours at the scene of a supposed suicide. However the apparent weapon was a 12 gauge shotgun with a 76cm long barrel. The suicide victim, so-called, was a petite woman whose arms were only 56-757 cm long. I pointed out that it was impossible for her to shoot herself in the head with the shot-gun, but Detective Inspector Dimmock said that her note confirmed the suicide. It was truly unfortunate that Greg Lestrade was busy with another case right now. I enjoyed working with him; he was a professional.

"You know Detective Inspector Dimmock, not all suicide notes are authentic," I stated rather harshly. "We need to gather and check all the evidence. We need to analyze this note to determine whether the victim actually wrote it. Then we need see if it all makes sense." I received pitying looks from the team. I flashed them my best fake smile.

I could hear their thoughts. "Oh, poor Watson, he still believes in Sherlock Holmes." "He won't believe that Holmes was a fraud." "He can't believe the 'note' that Sherlock left." Everyone ignored the evidence that I published showing that Holmes was a real deductive genius and that Richard Brook was a fraud. Bloody idiots.

Well I still thought it was a homicide scene, and insisted that Anderson gather evidence accordingly. Anderson was seriously annoyed and accused me of trying to be Sherlock Holmes. I accused him of trying to be incompetent.

Then I apologized. "Sorry Anderson, you don't have to try to be incompetent. You have completely mastered incompetency. Now since I'm overseeing forensics on this crime scene, we'll collect and analyze all the evidence. Then and only then can anyone make the right deductions," I finished.

I ignored the looks and the mutterings about "someone who thinks he's a detective." Keep on smiling John Watson.

I rather enjoyed bickering with Anderson. It was like arguing with Harry when we were kids; the pointless arguing helped blow off steam from other, more serious emotional fires.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end and I had to secure the evidence and head back to our flat. Shite. I mean my flat.

Back to the flat, for another fun-filled evening of pretending to have a life. Naturally it was pouring rain, and naturally I could not get a taxi. As I recall, Sherlock had always been able to hail taxis magically out of thin air.

I slogged all the way back to the flat in the deluge and let myself in. Mrs. Turner had evidently stopped by and left a light on in my flat. She probably left me some food too; she and Mrs. Hudson don't think I eat enough. They shared an ongoing campaign to make me eat. Dull.

I imagined Sherlock saying, "Eating is dull". I could hear his deep voice in my head. I could visualize his pale skin like fine china and his dark hair with its unruly curls. Let's not forget the eyes, the eyes that changed color with his many moods. His eyes that varied from bright blue and to sliver and even green. I think tonight they would have been grey like the rain.

Oh yes, I have finally admitted it, at least to myself. Indeed, I have had the bad taste to fall in love with my asexual, sociopathic flat-mate, but only after he was dea.., gone. God, I'm such a loser.

I slowly climbed the stairs, I always dreaded the lonely nights. I would of course end up roaming the streets in the middle of the night. I usually slept a couple of hours until the nightmares intervened. Then I invariably left the flat to walk, sometimes to jog.

Of course, sometimes I couldn't fall sleep at all. Often, the flat fairly echoed with silence. Then the sheer emptiness of the flat without Sherlock drove me out early on my expeditions to nowhere.

By now, I know London, nearly as well as Sherlock does. Note to self, please use the past tense John; he is dea..., gone. Time to move on. I felt a tear nearly escape my eye. This is me, moving on. Brilliant. I took a deep breath and moved on up the stairs.

I entered my flat and began tearing off my sopping clothes. I hung the jacket up to dry. I threw my wet grey jumper and tee-shirt on the floor. In retrospect, I was lucky to still be wearing my water-logged jeans when I heard the tentative cough. I was not alone. Things sort of snowballed from there.

I looked up into the amused and slightly contemptuous eyes of Mycroft Holmes (the traitor). I stood shocked, holding one wet sock in my hand; I probably looked like Gollum with his fish.

I took a deep breath, ready to tell Mycroft (the dirty traitor) what I thought of breaking and entering, not to mention voyeurism. That's when I saw the apparition, Sherlock, smiling smugly in his old chair.

Now, I was used to imagining Sherlock alive, often in that very chair. In fact,I imagined him all the time. It was one of my dysfunctional coping mechanisms. I figured dysfunctional was better than nonfunctional.

I sometimes had lengthy conversations with imaginary Sherlock. It was all that was left to me. I had my memories and my daydreams of what should have been.

Nevertheless, I always, _always_ knew it was just my imagination. I could always control it and make the imaginary Sherlock appear or disappear. However, this time he wouldn't go away. I blinked; he was still there. Not my imagination then? A bit not good, I was suffering from a fully developed visual hallucination.

"John." Said my hallucination. Wow, a complex visual and auditory hallucination. I was secretly impressed that I could develop such a life-like hallucination.

So it's finally happened, I have suffered a full psychotic break. That's more than a bit not good. I'll get a section. I'll rot in some institution, my mind rotting on psychotropic drugs. Better to leave now, and go join the homeless people.

My hallucination frowned and said "John." again. A repetitious hallucination, how dull. It figures I'd have a dull repetitious hallucination. Not so impressive after all.

"No." I said, and after that, I admit that I forgot to breathe. My hallucination stood up and looked worried; proof positive that this was unreal. The real Sherlock would never look that worried.

I wanted that hallucination to be real. I wanted it so bad that it hurt. Time to go Watson before your psychosis controls you. I executed a perfect about-face, threw open the door and ran out, slamming the door behind me.

I still hadn't taken another breath. Didn't someone say, "breathing is dull?" Unfortunately lack of breathing meant my vision became a bit blurry. This set the old snowball rolling.

In other words, I didn't see the stairs.

TBC

A/N I just made a few changes to Chapter 1 which somehow didn't come through during editing. In other words, i probably forgot to hit the save button. Anyway, thanks and please review. Virtual candy floss and kittens (or biscuits if you don't like candy floss) for all who send reviews.


	2. Chapter 2 My Return

**A/N **I had trouble writing this chapter, I've rewritten it three times at least. The boys are more than a bit OCC, but that's how I imagine them. I'm also changing the rating for now to T for language.

**Ritual Disclaimer **Sadly, I don't own anything to do with Sherlock Holmes, and everyone knows it.

**Chapter 2 My Return**

I crept into our old flat at 221B Baker Street like a thief. I waited until Mrs. Hudson was out-of-town visiting her cousin after I sent her free train tickets in the mail. John was out for the day, presumably at work.

I reveled in the familiarity of our flat. My skull still sat on our mantle overseeing the sitting room; my violin still rested against my chair safely in its case. They were both well cared for, as were all my possessions.

In my absence, John had moved into my bedroom, but surprisingly he kept all of my old clothes in there, odd.

In fact almost all of my possessions remained in situ and were spotless. John had entirely removed only my experiments . He had moved only my papers and notebooks; they were sorted and stacked near the bookshelf. I noted that John had annotated many of my papers with his careful handwriting.

Why did John keep so many reminders of me? Does this indicate that John cares for me the way that I care for him? I rapidly discard that notion. John had cared for me as a friend. How many times did he cry out, "I'm not gay". I can only hope that he will still wish to share a friendship with me.

I had thought that I would relish my solitude when I departed to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. Wrong.

The feelings and caring awakened by John Watson refused to return to slumber in my Mind Palace. I completed the task only to provide safety for my friend. Wrong again.

I have not completed my task; one man remains at large, the most dangerous of the lot, Sebastian Moran.

I must put aside contemplation of my emotions. It is pointless. I must also defer consideration of Colonel Moran until his location is updated by Mycroft's agents.

I returned to exploring my old home. I reveled in its sights and smells. I saw a pile of fresh laundry, folded by John? I smelled tea and toast, from John's breakfast? I touched his wool jumper that he had laid on the bed and smelled his aftershave. After three years, the sensations were nearly overwhelming.

I spent the remainder of my first afternoon back at 221B tuning and playing my old violin; it was quite pleasant.

My first visitor was unpleasant, Mycroft. I hadn't seen my dear brother for nearly eleven months. He was flawlessly dressed in grey pinstripe.

"You've gained nearly two kilograms," I said by way of greeting.

"Only one kilogram, actually. Out of practice with the violin?" asked Mycroft.

"Only because you refused to retrieve it for me," I said. I was unable to refrain from rolling my eyes. I began to pluck discordant chords; that always unnerved Mycroft.

"We agreed that John needed the violin more than you. It seemed to provide him comfort," said Mycroft with his usual sneer.

"Your presence here is unnecessary…" I began.

"We can not know how John will react when he sees you. He has suffered greatly." Mycroft held up his hand. "I understand the reasons Sherlock. Nevertheless, he suffered. He is likely to become angry or even violent. I shall remain here until I deem it safe."

"Not in John's chair!" I snapped. Mycroft sat on the couch, twirling his umbrella while I plucked nonchalantly at the violin.

Outside, I was still, icy. Inside, I felt ill. My stomach felt queasy, and I was unaccountably warm. Perhaps I was succumbing to influenza or another virus.

To relieve the tedium I counted the bullet holes in the wall. There were three times as many as there had been when I was last in the flat. John had evidently taken up wall shooting as a hobby. Not a good sign.

Mycroft and I turned simultaneously when we heard the front door open over the sound of the wind and the rain. I tensed involuntarily as I heard a slow but familiar tread upon the stairs.

I smiled faintly in welcome as John entered the flat. He was oblivious to our presence and extremely wet.

Immediately, John began to strip off his sodden clothing which startled me. I watched mesmerized as John Watson disrobed. After three years it was like a feast.

His blue eyes approached indigo in the dim lighting. (Dark circles under the eyes indicate poor sleep.) His short-cropped hair was still blond with slightly more grey than before and spiky from the rain.

John was thin, very thin (Still not eating, even after three years?) John was quite muscular (Working out regularly.)

I saw the red and pink scarring on his left shoulder for the first time. The ridges of distressed flesh were so much worse than I expected. It must hurt so much more than he ever let on. It must ache tonight in the rain (Oh, John)

Fortunately, I recalled that John was very modest before he removed his jeans. I coughed discretely to warn John that he was not alone.

John saw Mycroft first and began to swell with anger. His angry flush and aggressive soldier's stance were quite attractive. One thing that I have learned over the last three years is that sentiment regarding John cannot be deleted or resisted; so I enjoyed watching him.

Then John spotted me. Unfortunately, the evening went downhill from there. I expected surprise or anger or even grief from John. What John displayed was horror.

His eyes narrowed in surprise or disbelief. Then they widened in horror, his hand, still holding a wet brown sock, raised to cover his gaping mouth. I watched as the blood drained out of his face. John was afraid of me; this was much worse than anger.

I called out to him to reassure him. I stood, and that seemed to terrify John. Surely John doesn't believe in ghosts?

For no apparent reason, John said "no," and abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him. Seconds later we heard the terrible sounds of a body bouncing down the stairs.

I rushed to the stairs. The man I had thought about night and day for three years lay in a huddle down on the lower landing. For a moment I was sure he was dead. My worst fear was realized; I always knew John would leave me one day.

I flew down the stairs. My abdominal organs twisted painfully, and it was oddly difficult to breathe. "Mycroft, call an ambulance. Hurry," I gasped.

"Good Lord, Sherlock," drawled Mycroft from the top of the stairs. "I advised you to let me warn him first. I'll call for the ambulance at once."

I stood over him to check his pulse and noted his deep, ragged breathing.

He was hurt. I knelt next to my injured blogger; reluctant to injure him further by moving him. "Help is coming John, stay still. The ambulance is on its way." I said.

John moaned, "No, no ambulance. I'm fine. I'm good." He did not look fine or good. Nevertheless he pushed himself up with one arm and backed himself into the corner.

**%%%%%%%%%%%%%%**

I remember falling; I'm pretty sure I hit every part of my body as I slid down the stairs. When I reached the landing, something in my arm snapped. Not good at all, I broke my arm, a non-displaced fracture of the ulna; and it really hurts.

My injury was overshadowed by my obvious psychosis. My hallucination had followed after me. He straddled me and tried to take my pulse.

Oh Jeez, I had a visual, auditory and tactile hallucination, very convincing, very lifelike. I was once again impressed with my vivid, although psychotic, imagination.

I pushed up against the wall, trying to stand. The hallucination placed a warm hand on my shoulder. In fact, the hallucination was breathing his warm breath against my neck as he tried to prevent me from standing. I felt chills run down my spine, not scary unpleasant chills but the "Wow this feels really good" kind of chills.

I put a stop to that train of thought at once. For God's sake Watson! Get a grip on yourself. This is a hallucination of your asexual flat mate who would spurn any advance from you, if he were real. Which he isn't real. My arm really hurt.

"Help is coming John, stay still. The ambulance is on its way," whispered the hallucination.

"No, no ambulance. I'm fine. I'm good." I tried to speak firmly but it came out all squeaky and not good. (Awkward) I forced myself up and swatted Sherlock's hand away.

Then it hit me, the proverbial ton of bricks. How can Mycroft respond to my hallucination? I would never, ever, ever hallucinate about Mycroft Holmes (the dirty, traitorous peeping-Tom). Sooo… Mycroft must be real. If Mycroft is real, then Sherlock is…

Not a hallucination?

What, what? Sherlock? Bloody Sherlock is alive? It's a miracle! It's my miracle! It's my miracle trying to kill me.

I'm going to kill him.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"Sherlock, keep him quiet before he injures himself further," said my ever-helpful brother, Mycroft.

John's good hand clenched repeatedly. This is not good. John is ready to hit someone, and Mycroft is too far away to be the target. I stepped back as John Watson threw a punch.

John staggered into me when his punch swung wide and held onto me to stay upright. I hugged John tentatively, ready for another attack. John could be quite aggressive on his bad days, and this appeared to be a very bad day.

However, John responded positively to my embrace, he calmed and returned my hug with one arm. His forehead rested against my chest. His rain-dampened hair tickled my chin. I forced myself to concentrate.

John had sustained at least two obvious injuries in his fall. Note the forehead laceration, which was bleeding copiously into my jacket. He also cradled his right arm against his chest indicative of injury. I added a third injury to the list, severe bruising about the rib cage, especially on the left side.

John still clung to me unsteadily. So after my initial evaluation, I picked up my damaged flat-mate and carried him back up to our flat. John pushed ineffectually to get down and repeatedly swatted at me.

I set John down onto the couch. Then grabbed the towel proffered by Mycroft and placed it over the laceration on John's forehead. John seemed confused and combative, indicative of a possible concussion.

John studied me with narrowed eyes. I deduced that he was about to state the obvious.

%%%%%%%%%%%%

Although I had initially decided to kill Sherlock for his miraculous return, he confused me by hugging me. I decided to go with the hug instead of fighting. The hug was much nicer, and my arm really, really hurt. To be honest, when I realized that I could hug the lanky git, I forgot all about fighting.

Sherlock was warm and strong and safe. He smelled like Sherlock, the scent was clean with hints of lavender and cinnamon. The smell finally convinced me that all of this was real. Who ever heard of pleasant olfactory hallucinations?

Then to my surprise, he carried me up the stairs. (Awkward!) I found myself on the couch. Sherlock, alive and not a hallucination, was pressing a towel over my right eye. I reached up and found that my face was actually bloody. Great, I have a cut, which probably requires sutures. Maybe I have a concussion. Just great.

I looked at the World's Only Consulting Detective. "You, you're alive," I said. I instantly regretted this statement. Bloody hell, he's going to say, "stating the obvious…"

"Stating the obvious John," said Sherlock with a small smile turning his lips up. Do not stare at his lips.

I felt stupid for stating the obvious and for staring at his rosy lips. I did not just think rosy lips, did I?

I was so confused, and feeling stupid made me angry again.

"No. It isn't obvious. Not after you fell seven stories. Not after you had no pulse. Not after your funeral. Not after three whole years of you being gone." I yelled. My voice was cracking and rising in pitch (Awkward).

Right, stop it Watson. You sound like a loser. Don't. Do not sound needy. Do not act pathetic. Show some pride. Be a soldier. Stiff upper lip, and for God's sake, stop with the platitudes.

"And FYI Mycroft, I refuse to go anywhere in an ambulance, so don't call for one." I admit I huffed and tried to cross my arms. That hurt very, very bad. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

"John I can explain." Said Sherlock using a fake soothing voice that irritated me further. However his hand holding the cloth to my head was gentle, and Sherlock's other hand was on my shoulder again, squeezing reassuringly. More chills. God I'm such a sap. Or maybe I'm just going into shock. I hoped for shock.

To ease my confusion, I brilliantly decided to ignore whatever he said and instead pay attention to his hands. His hands? Wait, wait, wait! This is the man who avoided, I mean, avoids direct human contact. So what's with the hugging and touching? This does not compute.

Sherlock was still going on in that voice one uses for simpletons "…John I had to do it to save your life. There were snipers ready to shoot you. And afterwards they would have killed you if they knew I survived."

I couldn't stand the fake concern in his voice. He obviously didn't care about me for the past three years. Why pretend now?

Besides he wasn't making sense. What snipers? I don't see any bloody snipers.

"I don't see any bloody snipers. So shut up Sherlock. Just shut up. Don't say anything. Anything you say, can and will be used against you." I smirked to see Sherlock's consternation at this pronouncement. His mouth was slightly ajar, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce me.

My victory was short-lived. I accidentally focused on Sherlock's narrowed grey-blue eyes; they were very distracting. Concern and affection poured from his eyes.

I began to worry that he was a hallucination after all, because Sherlock doesn't show sentiment, except to Mrs. Hudson. And that Woman. He showed sentiment to her. Damn The Woman. I scowled.

"John I'm trying to explain everything to you," snapped Sherlock finally. Much better, that's the petulant detective we all know and . Watch it. Do not say love out loud. Do not even think it. No one must know how I feel. One word about love and he'll be on the next train for Budapest.

"Sherlock, where's Budapest?" I asked, still distracted by those glittering eyes. I saw Sherlock and Mycroft exchange worried glances. OK, Budapest was a non sequitur, perhaps a bit not good.

Time for the patented fake smile; that will reassure them. I tilted my head and smiled. They were not appeased.

Right, change the subject. "OK, never mind Budapest. So Sherlock, welcome back." Yes, good one. You're on a roll Watson. "So you've been traveling? Meeting new people; making new enemies?" Oh God, the looks again, they think I've lost it. Well, they made me lose it.

I kept talking, foolishly thinking that it would help. "Where did you go? Did you meet any Woman, women?"

This was a stupid conversation. Maybe I should make a run for it until my mind actually engaged with my mouth.

"Well I guess I should get going; I need to go to the A and E…" I said repeating my patented fake smile.

"John you just refused the ambulance…" started Mycroft.

"I don't want an ambulance Mycroft," I said sweetly to Mycroft (the dirty peeping-Tom traitor), "I think I'd like a nice walk. Stop for some dinner and pop-in to the A and E."

They weren't buying it. Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly. Sherlock and Mycroft had both narrowed their eyes. And honestly, who would name their children Sherlock and Mycroft anyway? Sherlock released my shoulder and guided my good hand up to hold the towel over the cut.

Then Sherlock walked over to my briefcase, pulling out my laptop. He cracked the password in less than a minute. I watched Sherlock gain access to my desktop, to my accounts, to my files, to my personal files….

I flew across the room, slammed the laptop shut and grabbed it in my good arm. The room started spinning and there were at least two Sherlocks, and oh Christ, two Mycrofts too! And one Mycroft one is too many.

I sat heavily down onto the floor, trying to clutch my head and the laptop and my bad arm. No good, too many things to clutch. Furthermore, I was dizzy and I couldn't figure out what I had just thought (Something about two Mycrofts?). I shuddered, the bad kind of shudder like when you realize you've bit into a worm while eating an apple. That made me shudder again.

On the bright side, at least I _sat_ down on the floor and didn't fall flat on my face. I also still held the laptop. JW-1, SH-0.

I did recall that I must protect the laptop with extreme prejudice. Sherlock must not read my personal blog. Sherlock Holmes must not under any circumstances read my poetry file. Dear God, think of all that bad poetry, all that sentimental drivel about him. I would choose death over Sherlock reading my poetry, my poetry about _him_.

"John I need your laptop to look up signs of a concussion, I believe you are exhibiting such signs." Said Sherlock evenly, while he tried to grasp at my laptop. I snatched it out of his reach.

"It's not a concussion it's a vasovagal response due to stress, shock and maybe missing a few meals." I snapped. I felt my face heating up. Oh good, now I'm blushing. I'm making a fine impression.

"Do what ever you want," I said, " just stay away from my laptop." Subtle, that won't attract his attention. Bloody hell. I tried another smile, but my heart just wasn't in it.

Just then, Greg Lestrade burst into the flat. "John. I heard over the radio that someone called for an ambulance to your building. I thought you might have done something stupid."

"I never do anything stupid," I grumbled from the floor protecting my arm and laptop. "In fact nothing ever happens to me."

"Dear God John! What's happened to you?" Greg yelled as he bent over me.

"Don't yell at me, it's not my fault," I yelled back, grateful to have someone else to yell at.

"Who did this to you?" asked the Detective Inspector. He looked over to Mycroft (the evil traitor) for an answer then turned to the man who had tried to step into the shadows, Sherlock Holmes.

"You bloody bastard, what have you done to him now?" Greg grabbed Sherlock by his shirt, dragging him forward. "Good God! Sherlock Holmes, you're alive. Do you have any idea of what you did to us? To John?" He punctuated his statements by shaking Sherlock.

I noted that Sherlock did _not_ tell Greg that_ he_ was stating the obvious, even though he was. Then I noted that he was abusing my detective (unacceptable). No one threatens Sherlock, unless it's me.

I pulled myself back up to a stand and moved very carefully and very slowly; thankfully, the room remained motionless. I slowly pushed myself in between Sherlock and the furious Detective Inspector; I still clutched my laptop.

"Greg, seriously; stop it. You're making a mistake based on a faulty assumption," I said. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me. I flashed him a grin.

"It was an accident. I slipped on the stairs. I forgot to breathe; it can happen to anyone. Also my socks were wet," I said. As evidence, I helpfully held up my foot that still wore the wet sock. Unfortunately, I wasn't steady enough for such advanced maneuvering, and I tipped forward into Greg's arms.

A/N Reviews are treasures; please share your thoughts :)


	3. Chapter 3 Reevaluation

**Chapter 3 Reevaluation**

Stop it Watson, I thought. I tried to clear my mind of the image of Sherlock standing on edge of the roof of St. Bart's. God no, I watched him falling, his form black against the sky, his arms flailing as if trying to fly. I saw the crowd that kept me from him; they wouldn't let me touch him. I saw the blood, the dark crimson blood pooling on the sidewalk, on his face, in his hair…Stop it, I screamed inside. Stop. It isn't real. It happened years ago. I fought for control, to stop the flashbacks, yet again.

The fall happened years ago. Wait, in fact, it didn't happen. or it didn't happen the way I saw it. Right, whatever.

I finally registered Sherlock's deep baritone voice asking if I could hear him. His voice vibrated in my chest. I touched his shoulder to see if he really, really was there. My hand slid slowly down his wiry arm finally resting on his thin fingers, his warm living fingers. I resisted the impulse to take his pulse.

Sherlock Holmes is alive. Still tall, pale and enigmatic. I finally stopped to actually look at him, to observe him.

Expensive black suit tailored to fit his thinner than ever body like a glove, accentuating his fine arse. right along then. Sherlock's thinner, not eating properly. So what else is new? Expensive, tailored navy button down shirt, silk or silk-cotton blend. The dark blue shirt contrasts beautifully with his crystal blue eyes and alabaster skin. God help me, I just said my old flatmates skin was alabaster. I've got it bad; there's no way I'll be able to hide my feelings from the World's Only Consulting Detective.

He has a silver tone Rolex watch and the latest iphone; add those to the expensive clothing - conclusion, he isn't lacking for money. The British Government, aka the traitorous Mycroft, must have bankrolled Sherlock's endeavors.

His hair is shorter and recently dyed, it must have been colored differently for some disguise. Keep deducing; I know his methods.

There is fine scarring on his left hand, year old, possibly cuts from broken glass. Another scar on his left temple, mostly hidden in the hairline. The scar is less clean and sharp. Not from a blade then, bullet wound? Shrapnel? I imagined the dangers he has faced over the past three years. I shuddered and tried not to visualize him dead in front of St. Bart's.

Right, he says he's been fighting Moriarty's crime network, the visible scars confirm this as does the hair. He's been supported by Mycroft who I hate for not telling me but who I have to like because he helped Sherlock, who I hate even more for not telling me but who I have to like because he saved my life and who I love more than life itself. So, there.

Whatever his reasons, Sherlock left me. Whatever his reasons, Sherlock came back. Time to accept it because I sure as hell won't throw him out. I looked at the pale man seated next to me. I tried to deal with it; I really did. He was still explaining his reasons.

"John, Moriarty's gang would have noticed if I returned to you. They would have notice any change in your behavior. They would have noticed if you stopped mourning too soon. They wanted to kill you if I gave them any reason to be suspicious," said Sherlock. He sprang up and began pacing, his eyes glittering like ice. "Believe me I caught and questioned enough of them, I knew that your life was still at risk."

I grabbed a mug of tea, spilling some. As usual, Greg made it too strong and put in way too much sugar.I drank it anyway. On the plus side, at least it was hot. I ignored the crackers and jam that he placed in front of me.

"As long as you mourned, they believed in my death and you were safe." continued Sherlock. "I decided that it was too risky to contact you. I was glad of course when you moved on and got over it…"

"Right, I get it. I get that you had to jump to save us. I thank God for your brilliance in planning the fall so that you could survive. That was truly amazing. Don't give me that look. I mean it. You were really amazing. What you did was heroic. I owe you my life." I said, speaking coherently for the first time that night. Maybe the tea was helping. I started to drink Sherlock's tea. Sherlock's eyes were wide; I don't think that he expected me to accept his explanation.

I continued, "I even understand why you stayed away, but I officially do not agree with that decision."

"I deserved to know that you were alive just as soon as the immediate danger was over. Even if you wanted to leave alone afterwards, I deserved to know the truth, and I do not want to hear about the risks. Just for the record Sherlock, I decide for myself whether or not something is too risky for me. You do not get to decide for me," I banged the empty mug down on the table, scattering the stupid crackers. Why are there crackers there anyway?

Mycroft and Greg scurried out from the kitchen like nervous rodents. I probably interrupted Mycroft's plotting, the scheming rat.

"John you need to calm down," said Greg. "Drink some more tea."

"Oh please stop hovering Greg. I already had some tea. I had two teas, I'm fine. I mean really, use your grey matter." I glared at Greg, then at everyone. "Maybe some people should realize that I was in the bloody army. I faced threats and received injuries all the time. I faced snipers there, and before you say a word, I only got shot because of special circumstances. Oh sod this, I was assigned to a team that took out snipers. I really think that I could have dealt with the risk."

Greg stuck a cracker in my hand. I raised my hand to throw it back at him, then ate it while he stood there hands on his hips. Sod the crackers.

"John you can't know about the leader who was assigned to kill you. He is one of the most dangerous criminals in the world. You couldn't possibly face him…" said Sherlock.

"Bollocks! I don't know about him because you didn't tell me about him. Further more, you obviously don't know what I can and cannot face. What I had to face was watching my friend, my very best friend, kill himself in front of me. I've faced grief and guilt and loneliness everyday for three years. I pretended to move on and pretended to have a life so that other people could get on with theirs." I tried not to yell.

I took a breath to try to calm down. "Trust me, I'll choose the sniper any day over what I've had to face. There are worse things than death Sherlock Holmes. Now can we just let it go?," I asked tiredly.

Greg came and sat next to me. "Look mate, lets try to bandage you up, shall we?" He put his hand on my good arm.

Sherlock swept over and loomed over Greg."It doesn't help Lestrade, you giving him conflicting orders. Relax, drink tea, let's get bandaged up." Sherlock squeezed on to the couch on my other side and put his hand on my shoulder. Well, this is new...and odd. Sherlock was glaring at Lestrade while he rubbed my shoulder, and I thought Sherlock didn't like touching people.

Sherlock's mouth opened ever so slightly. I stared at his lips, his pink lips, for several seconds; I imagined how they would feel against my lips.

Oh dear Lord, there I go again. I felt the tell-tale blush rise in my face. I raised my eyes to study the ceiling intently. Why look, there is a tiny spot of peeling paint up there.

I chanced a quick glance; bloody hell, he's deducing me. What if he can read my mind? I returned my gaze to the cracked paintwork and tried not to think about those lips. I thought hard about kittens and ice cream.

"John!" said the World's Only Consulting Detective sharply. I jumped; think about rainbows and candyfloss Watson. "John, Lestrade is right; you need medical care..."

I giggled in relief, he didn't see me staring at his lips!

"John?" demanded Sherlock.

"Umm?" was all I could mange between giggles. So much for coherent speech. I need to get out of the flat and get control of myself.

"He's hysterical," pronounced the evil Mycroft.

"The stress is too much," ventured Greg.

It was too much. I needed time to think.

"Yes the stress is too much. I need time to think. I'm going for a walk," I said, and I stood with care and dignity. Thankfully the room did not spin around anymore.

"John, wait. You..." said Sherlock.

"No. no. I need some fresh air; make yourselves at home. Have some tea," I said hospitably.

I skirted around Lestrade and ignored the sneering evil mastermind, Mycroft.

This time, I managed to get down the stairs successfully and stepped outside. It was cold and still raining.

That's when I realized that I had seriously miscalculated. I was half-naked in the rain and barefoot. Well, technically one foot had a sock on it, but still…

I stood uncertainly under the cold downpour. The wind drove rain into my face, hmm yes, nice fresh air. I was already shivering. Brilliant maneuver.

I had to admit that I had behaved like a complete arse. I had prayed for a miracle for three years and when it was granted, I freaked out. Bloody brilliant.

I needed a smoke. I sat down on the steps at 221B Baker Street; my teeth chattered to a salsa rhythm. I struggled with my one good hand to dig a soggy pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. It took several attempts before I lit the bloody thing.

I watched the rain hit my laptop. Rain is probably not good for an expensive laptop, no, not good at all.

What just happened? I can't get a handle on what happened tonight. I can't tell if I'm happy or angry or hurt or thrilled or all of the above. Oh God, I am confused. I am so confused that I don't know what to do or say. I am nonplussed.

My mobile beeped with an incoming message. I dug the phone out of my other pocket.

I read the text message.

**My only goal was to protect you; for that I offer no apology. SH**

**I did not wish to see you suffer. I admit that I miscalculated the affect my death would have on you. For that, I am sorry. SH**

******Right. I do get it. It's just that it hurt.**

**I will add that I found the last three years to be empty and unfulfilling without my blogger. SH**

**So you say. **

**Yes. I do say. SH**

**Return to the flat. SH**

**No, I feel a bit stupid. I think I need some fresh air.**

**I will add that I missed you. So there Mr. Genius.**

**Come back in now. SH**

**John. SH**

**I shall locate your firearm. When I find it I shall put more holes in the wall. SH**

**Mycroft took my gun two years ago.**

**You replaced it of course. SH**

**So you say.**

**Well, what are you doing?**

**Sherlock?**

**I gave the Sig Saur to Mycroft. SH**

"Bloody Hell!" I yelped. Yes, I did yelp. I scrambled up and turned only to crash into the World's Only Consulting Detective. His long arms snaked around me and kept me from falling down the wet steps.

"Bloody hell. You startled me. You can't sneak up on a bloke like that," I glared at him. I also leaned a bit into his embrace.

"You curse a bit more than you used to John," said Sherlock.

"Only when provoked. I'd like my gun back," I demanded.

"It was poorly hidden John," he said. "Taped to the underside of the desk? It was obvious John."

"Right. It was invisible for two years Sherlock. It was so obvious that no one looked there. It was safe from everyone except you. Now, please return it," I asked.

"Not here on the steps John, it might look a bit suspicious," he murmured. Was his chin resting on my head? I shuddered at the thought. Not the repulsed kind of shudder. It was the good "Oh he's holding me close" kind of shudder.

His chest was warm and comforting. I could hear his heart beating. There was that Sherlocky smell again, lavender and cinnamon. Fine. Resistance is futile. I relaxed against him.

"I suppose people will talk," I commented.

"They do little else, John." I let him lead me inside.

At least for now, my life isn't boring anymore.


	4. Chapter 4 Inconvenient Truths

**A/N **I've decided to put %%%% when the pov changes within a chapter. I hope it makes it easier to read. Special thanks to power0girl for your encouragement! ; )

**Ritual Disclaimer** Unfortunately I own no rights to anything Sherlockinan. Those rights belonged to ACD and now belong to the BBC.

**Chapter 4 Inconvenient Truths**

When we returned to the flat, my brother Mycroft sat at the kitchen table drinking tea with Lestrade. I ushered my sodden and confused blogger past them into my bedroom, his bedroom, to change into dry clothing.

I hid my concern. On top of his as yet untreated injuries, his pallor and chattering teeth indicated incipient hypothermia. I laid out some sweat pants and a button-up shirt and a warm wool cardigan, typical, casual, John clothing. Although I enjoyed seeing John half-dressed, it would be agreeable to see John in his usual attire again.

I instructed John to change his clothes and then come out into the kitchen. He agreed. This in itself was concerning, a healthy John would never take such domestic orders from me.

I waited seven minutes and thirty seconds. This was taking too long. I knocked and entered the room. John was displeased when I reentered.

%%%%%%%%%%%

After Sherlock left the room, I desperately looked around for a place to stash my laptop. I knew that I could never devise a Sherlock-proof password. Of course, no place in my flat would be safe either. The laptop had to stay with me at all times.

Then I was faced with an inconvenient truth. I could not unfasten my sodden jeans with one hand. I struggled for several minutes just to unbutton the jeans; the zipper was well and truly stuck. Disaster!

I tugged and pulled trying to get the jeans off. The jeans were recently purchased and fit relatively snuggly. Not exactly tight, but fashionably snug. I was generally depressed but there was no reason to be a slob.

Oh but this is truly a disaster. The wet tight jeans were permanently attached.

Sherlock knocked and entered at the same time, naturally it was when I was tugging with all my strength at the stubborn zipper. I looked a complete idiot. My life is over; please just shoot me.

Sherlock stared. I think he was nonplussed. Then his lips twitched upwards, which I found quite irritating and yet more than a bit distracting. Then he asked, using that horrible fake-concerned voice, "John can I be of assistance?"

"No" I snapped. "I'm fine." As previously noted, I hate that condescending voice.

%%%%%%%%%

John was in a ludicrous position. He was quite unable to remove his jeans with one hand. I tried to smile reassuringly and offered assistance. Naturally, John was too proud to accept.

I decided that John was in too much pain and too hypothermic to be rational. Then there was the possible concussion to consider, not to mention shock. I would have to take charge.

I closed the door to preserve his precious dignity. Then I placed my hands on his shoulders to gain his trust. My research into personal relationships was now paying off.

John stood still. He looked at me with his chin thrust out, eyebrows raised, clearly daring me to assist him. "Trust me," I ordered. Finally I reached out and unzipped his jeans.

Abruptly, I realized that I found this arousing. I was responding physically to John. Even more surprising to me, I was not disgusted with the sensations.

Fortunately, John was unaware of my physical response. Still, he was very embarrassed by his position. John's blush was extraordinary, the color of claret. I pushed him gently onto the bed and pulled the recalcitrant jeans off and then handed John some dry boxers and the sweat pants. I reluctantly turned my back.

%%%%%%%%%%

I was mortified. Having Sherlock remove my trousers was in fact of my fantasies, but it was the result of a foolish injury not passion. Oh God, what if he saw how arousing it was for me. Please, please just shoot me.

I quickly replaced my boxers and put on the gym pants. How did Sherlock know where to find my clothes?

I grabbed the shirt and tried to stuff my arm in. Bad idea. The sudden pain hit me so hard that I moaned before stuffing my good hand into my mouth. Sherlock was there in an instant grasping my shoulders and staring at me with those eyes of his, silver-blue in this room.

He drew his dark brows down in concern. Maybe he really is concerned; he acts concerned. Why? Why is he concerned?

Yes, I often found myself thinking and talking like the great consulting detective. After all I had studied his papers and copied his methods, speech and habits for three years now. It was how I had kept a piece of Sherlock with me after he...after he left.

"John, you idiot. Let me help you get dressed before you freeze. Then you are going to A and E," said Sherlock, his deep voice unusually gentle and reverberating in my chest. Speechless from the pain and this new, kinder Sherlock, I let him dress course, I felt myself flush red again.

%%%%%%%%%%

It upset me when John cried out in pain. I know that John is normally a stoic, so the pain must have been severe. I was suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings of protectiveness and concern, inconvenient but irresistible truths. My feelings were getting stronger by the minute now that I was back with John. I should measure and evaluate my feelings. I should track the changes. Later, after John is taken care of.

Once John was dressed, I led him into the kitchen. where his medical supplies lay scattered on the table. John sat down and the busybody, Lestrade, handed John another cup of tea. John drank it but his face plainly said it was not to his liking.

"John does not like sugar in his tea," I informed the Detective Inspector.

"Sherlock, it's fine. Really, I don't mind," said John mildly. The corner of his lip turned up in the smallest of smiles when he looked at me, at me and not at Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John was finally his calm and reasonable self began assembling supplies to splint his arm. I smashed an old wooden box to provide adequate splints. John very professionally immobilized his lower arm and wrapped it with gauze, with my assistance of course.

Then John studied his facial laceration in a mirror. Of course, Lestrade had grabbed the mirror and held it for John. while I was preparing the butterfly stitches.

I outmaneuvered the overly helpful Detective Inspector. I cleaned the laceration myself. I placed the butterfly stitches and then dressed the wound with a clean plaster. John patiently sat during my ministrations only once starting in discomfort. Lestrade and his mirror were rendered useless. I believe Mycroft himself was surprised by my skill.

%%%%%%%%%%

I may be a Detective Inspector but I had no clue what was going on here tonight. John was injured, which in itself was not unusual, but Sherlock had mysteriously returned from the dead, now that was unusual. I still didn't know for sure how the two situations were connected.

I drank four or five cups of tea. There was very little else that I could do. Everytime I tried to help John, Sherlock jumped in and pushed me aside. I honestly began to think that Sherlock was jealous. John was behaving oddly too, clutching that stupid laptop the whole time and blushing almost every time someone spoke to him.

"OK John, for the record what happened here?" I finally asked. I needed answers, and then I needed my bed. John rubbed his forehead, I guess he didn't know how to start. I didn't blame him.

"John was frightened when he saw Sherlock. Perhaps he thought Sherlock was a ghost." Suggested Mycroft, looking cool and urbane as always. Meanwhile I probably look a fright in my wrinkled clothes that I'd worn for the past 16 hours.

John roused at Mycroft's suggestion; predictably he blushed crimson. "I was not frightened you git. I did not think that Sherlock was a ghost!" snapped John. "I assumed he was a hallucination which was logical considering that I was forced to believe that he was dead. You" John pointed at Sherlock, " you forced me to believe you were dead!"

Then he turned on Mycroft "and you helped him, you double traitor. Whenever I talked about the possibility of Sherlock having survived the Fall, you called me psychotic. You called me delusional."

John paused to take a deep breath before he continued, "Everyone called me delusional for believing in Sherlock Holmes. And then you wonder at my surprise and shock when he turns up sitting in his bloody chair. You're both bloody madmen, that's what you are."

John was clenching his fist. I stood up to intercept him if necessary.

"John. Calm down. I can understand why you thought he was a hallucination. I really do. Now why don't you have some nice fresh tea," I said reasonably.

"Oh shut it Greg. I don't want any nice tea. I need a damn beer is what I need," John shoved past me and stormed into the living room.

He pushed the window open and we all rushed into the sitting room where John was lighting up a cigarette. "What?" he said irritably. "I hate the smell of old cigarette smoke." He glared and narrowed his eyes. "What? Oh for Christ sake, if I wanted to off myself I wouldn't do it from a two-story window, and _I_ wouldn't make my friends watch."

"Fine, while John smokes, Sherlock, will you please tell me what happened and where you've been for three years."

%%%%%%%%%%

I confess that I did think that John might try to egress through the window. My brother Mycroft even looked concerned. Apparently John's irrationality that night was contagious.

My chest grew tight when he said that he wouldn't make his friends watch him kill himself. I had hurt him so deeply when all I wanted was to save he turned and wouldn't look at me, I actually felt physical pain. Sentiments are a horrible liability.

Then D I Lestrade was unexpectedly brilliant. He asked for explanations and so I explained all my actions to him, and John heard every word. Which helps explain why Lestrade is in fact a friend. He is not as much of an idiot as most people, and he helps me.

Now was the time to relay the bad news. "I regret that in the end I failed you John. One of the snipers has evaded my capture, and he knows I am alive. He will certainly be looking for me and he will probably come after you as well."

Lestrade's jaw dropped.

John looked out into the street. "Well,"John finally drawled, "you don't seem too worried. Clearly you somehow know that he isn't here right now. When do you expect him Sherlock?"

"John what are you talking about? How do you know that he isn't out there right now." Lestrade strode over to the window to pull John away.

"Greg, Sherlock would have suggested moving away from the window if he thought there was a problem. So he knows the sniper isn't currently a threat. Try to keep up Greg," said John.

I had to go over and pull John out of Lestrade's grasp yet again. I felt irritation with Lestrade and pride at John's immediate grasp of the situation. John has improved greatly at making deductions. In addition, John did not pull away from me.

%%%%%%%%%%

"Well Sherlock, lay it on me," I said; I even flashed my John Watson patented fake smile. Unfortunately, Sherlock did not understand my use of slang. His blank look was priceless. Wide blue-grey eyes, open mouth, eyebrows raised in puzzlement. Adorable.

Oh Lord! There I go again. Stop it at once John Watson. Sherlock is a friend, just a friend.

I tried again, "Right, well now the truth is finally coming out. Obviously you did not come all this way just for our touching reunion." I said calmly trying to add a bit of humor. Yes, I was finally dealing with Sherlock's return. I would enjoy Sherlock while he was here and I would behave like a mature adult when he left.

"You need this flat?" I continued. "Or is there something you'd like me to do to help you catch the sniper? You must know that I'll do anything that you want. Of course you'll be leaving soon; I understand that. It will be nice to have another case together though, if you want my help that is." I gave a small fake smile for reassurance. It was the best I could muster.

Sherlock gave me his infamous sideways glance, his eyes narrowed. Whoops, I said something wrong. Now I'm getting the "how did such an unpleasant specimen get under my microscope" look. Watch out for cutting remarks and vicious insults. I might need my medical bag again soon to treat the wounds from the verbal onslaught.

Scrutiny complete, he shocked me with an innocuous, "Actually John, I hoped to move back into 221B Baker Street; that is, if you wish to have a flatmate again. And yes I have formulated a plan to attract the sniper here, where he can be captured or eliminated."

"No elimination Sherlock! In fact you never said it, and I never heard it," protested Greg looking very uncomfortable.

Mycroft (the traitor who has been suspiciously quiet) patted Greg reassuringly on the shoulder. "Naturally Sherlock will follow the law. Sherlock meant eliminate any threat posed by Moran."

"Your concern with the safety of Sebastian Moran is unwarranted, Lestrade. He is a serial killer…"

I ignored the ensuing debate and they ignored me. Somehow I had hid my surprise from the great detective.

Sebastian Moran, my old brother in arms, was coming here. He was gunning for my detective. I will have to eliminate Seb, my old friend. God help me.


	5. Chapter 5 Brothers-in-Arms

**A/N** This chapter is a bit long, it kind of ran away with itself. I've always imagined what John's service in Afghanistan was like. So... BTW there is abusive behavior, and violence in this chapter.

**Disclaimer**: This is written for profitless enjoyment using characters that properly belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.

**Chapter 5 Brothers-in-Arms**

Sherlock explained that Moran, Moriarty's second in command, had been in hiding, that there was no sign of him for over two years. Recently, Moran had started hunting for Sherlock. Presumably, Sebastian had finally realized that Sherlock was not really dea…, gone.

Mycroft's agents had tracked Sebastian Moran back to England.

Sherlock continued, "We will lay a trap for him. I know that he has been hunting for me. I worry that he will come after John now too, because John was his primary target if I had not "died" at St. Bart's,"

I stifled a moan remembering Sherlock's fall, again. Rubbish, I have to get beyond this.

"Mycroft and I have devised a plan," continued Sherlock.

Well great, another plan. I bet it will be another really stupid plan that protects me and exposes Sherlock. Sod that.

Sherlock is the man who needs protecting. If Seb hasn't killed me by now, it's probably because he doesn't want to. Either he's still under orders from that madman, Moriarty, or Seb has figured out that killing Sherlock is worse to me than my own death.

I lit another cigarette. Seb introduced me to smoking. He said it calms the nerves but makes you more alert. He said it would make me a better sniper, calm but alert.

I never let Sherlock in on that little army secret; he never would have quit smoking. Now look at me; I'm the one chain-smoking, like a chimney. Should I blame Sebastian or Sherlock. I am so confused, again.

I met Seb during my second tour in Afghanistan. I was making post op rounds in our field hospital. The wounded men lay under stark white sheets, most of them awaiting evacuation to Europe or even England. I listened to the familiar chorus of beeps from heart monitors and IVAC pumps.

Angry shouting from the anteroom rudely interrupted rounds. Bill, my nurse, and I ran to the front desk. A tall, bearded Colonel had cornered our head nurse, the Dragon. She was 42, hard as nails and ran the medical department like a dictator. Everyone was afraid of her, except this Colonel.

"I don't care about your rosters. I'm under orders to extract some wounded hostages and I need a doctor to come along and keep the hostages alive. I need a doctor now," he slammed his fist on the desk. The Dragon was unmoved.

I knew nothing about the mission or the Colonel leading it, so naturally I volunteered. The Dragon glared at me, it seemed as if a faint wisp of smoke escaped her flared nostrils. The Colonel just laughed scornfully.

"You know anything about guns, doctor? You think you can hike all day in the desert and climb with a full pack and a rifle? Are you even a real doctor or are you a hobbit between jobs?" he sneered.

"Yes sir, I can handle a gun and I'm a surgeon, second tour here." I said deliberately interrupting a superior officer. "As far as hiking in the desert and climbing goes, been there, done that. You said you needed a doctor, I volunteered. You don't want me, fine. I have rounds to finish." I turned away, without seeking permission.

"Hold it there, Captain," he ordered, turned to the Dragon. "He any good, Dragon Lady."

Our head nurse seethed but answered, "He's a very good surgeon, Colonel. He…"

"Fine. Doctor, bring your equipment and two medics and full battle armor. You have 15 minutes to assemble in front of this so-called hospital. Welcome aboard Captain Baggins," he said as he left. Oh how clever, a another hobbit joke. I never heard hobbit jokes before.

Twenty minutes later, the Colonel introduced me to the team, as the Hobbit (Surprise, surprise). They looked me over, informed me that I was late and proceeded to ignore me. The two medics were immediately accepted and drawn into conversations. Right.

We drove for hours over dusty rutted roads Then we hiked under the burning sun through brush and into the foothills in full armor, carrying guns and, for some of us, medical gear. I disliked the team. I hated the Colonel, and I seriously doubted my sanity.

Just after dark, we finally faced our target. Thick mud brick walls surrounded a large courtyard, house and two outbuildings. According to Colonel Moran's Intel, there were three hostages inside the house, two of whom were wounded. Moran's spec ops team planned to rescue them before their wounds killed them. Oh, by the way, the hostages were officially not in Afghanistan at all. Great, cloak and dagger, I hated myself.

The Colonel was in a fury. There were four armed guards on the walls of the compound. Contrary to his Intel, there were a lot more guards here than he expected. Unfortunately, there was only the one sniper in our team, the Colonel himself.

He had to take out the guards so that the Sergeant could blow the gates so that we could run in and free the prisoners, the prisoners who were officially not here.

I decided to butt in again; what's the worst that could happen? "Look Colonel, from that rock it's only 650, maybe 700 meters. I think I could take the two on the left and you take the two on the right," everyone was staring at me. "Or you could take the two on the left?"

I must have violated some sacred noninterference doctrine or something. Maybe it was time for me to butt out. "Or not, if you'd rather go on planning the frontal assault with limited sniper cover, that's fine." I may have been just a touch sarcastic with my superior officer again; it's a personality failing of mine.

"You think you can shoot as good as me little hobbit?" he asked lifting me up off the ground by my jacket. I met his eyes and didn't blink, but he did.

"No, I said that I think your targets are within range. I thought it was pertinent to the mission," I said still suspended in midair.

"Right," said the Colonel. "Chas, the Hobbit and I will take out the guards. As soon as they're down, you're going to blow the gates. Then everyone storms the compound," said Colonel Moran, "except the Hobbit. Since he's our sniper, he'll stay here and cover the gate and the walls, after he dispatches the two on the left of course."

I knew I was good, but I wouldn't get a practice shot. I felt a frisson of nervousness. The Colonel gave the signal. I fired once; a man wearing a scarf over his face fell. The guard next to him turned to shoot at us, I locked on him and fired again. He dropped. "Two rounds, two targets down," said someone, "you're OK, Hobbit."

The Colonel took out his two guards with just two rounds too.

Chas blew the gate; they all stormed in. I watched and chewed my lip. I should be in there with the wounded. I wanted to fight with the others. There were gunshots and automatic fire in the compound. Strobe-like flashes preceded the reports of the guns. The smell of gun-smoke drifted over to me, stirring my excitement even more.

Then I saw three insurgents emerge from the rocks behind the wall, and they crept over to the gate. I shot two of them with my rifle and probably winged the third; he stumbled back into the brush. Ten minutes later, our team was on the move.

Thirty minutes later I forced a stop to begin treating the former prisoners. I really needed to look over the unconscious former hostage. He was not actively bleeding,and seemed to be regaining consciousness. I dressed his wounds, started fluids and pumped him full of meds. I assigned a medic to monitor the wounded man closely.

I dressed the wounds of the other two ex-prisoners and had them drink some fluids. The remaining medic and I treated the others for burns, lacerations and a minor gunshot wound. Then I told the Colonel that we could continue. He chuckled at the "Hobbit giving him orders".

Fifteen hours later, I left the OR, the last of the wounded were in the recovery room. A special medevac would be coming to take them away. The CO informed me that the former hostages didn't exist and if they did, I hadn't seen them. A subtle warning to keep my mouth shut. Right, like I'm an idiot.

I left the field hospital practically stumbling with exhaustion.

The Colonel and his team were waiting for me outside the field hospital. "Hey Captain Johnny," said Chas, a Sergeant. "We've been waiting, like forever. You medics take way too long." Chas grabbed my elbow and started dragging me along.

"Yeah Johnny, we're ready to celebrate, but we needed our lucky Hobbit," said the Colonel with a grin. "We've all had some beer so you need to catch up." He handed me a beer and my first cigarette. We ended up in Cameron's tent. It was always the party tent possibly because he always had beer available.

We drank a lot. They wanted to know where I learned to shoot and why I was hiding out as a doctor when I was clearly a sniper. As a compromise, we decided that I was a sniper doctor or possibly a snipologist. The jokes went downhill from there.

I was now an unofficial member of an unofficial spec ops team. Five to ten times a month, I was pulled off the surgical roster and ordered to accompany Colonel Moran's team. Sometimes they needed a doctor, but usually I went as sniper and all-around useful Hobbit. As much as I loved the army; I loved working with Seb's team even more.

* * *

We followed Sebastian without question. I admired him; yes I seem to have a bad habit of looking for heroes. Sherlock called me out on this once.

It was easy to admire Sebastian. He was handsome, brave, and always victorious. He led us on horrible, dangerous missions. He was never dull.

It was harder to like Sebastian. He had a mean streak. He teased and bullied mercilessly. He played cruel jokes; like the time he made up a letter supposedly from Micky's girl, breaking up with him. Not surprisingly, that joke ended in a fist fight and Micky in hospital with a concussion. Then there was the time he tied Chas and me together on a donkey and sent us out into the desert. It took us a day to get back to camp, tired and dehydrated. We were punished for being AWOL. I never got the point of that 'joke'. I never forgot about it either.

We all played lots of poker. I almost always lost; Seb almost always won. I gambled away everything except my uniform, my doctor's bag and my guns.

Cameron, Chas and Sebastian all chased the women. Seb was ruggedly handsome, tall and blond with blue eyes. He had his way with women and some men too. They all flocked to him in spite of his cruelty to them.

On a New Years Eve, we had a party going in Cameron's tent. I was losing at poker as usual. There were only four women in the crowd, and Seb had one of them to himself. She was a pretty blond Lieutenant who was very drunk. The riotous party silenced when Sebastian slapped her down to the floor. He reached for her, again but I tackled him down. He easily threw me to the side and lunged for the sobbing woman again. I grabbed Seb from behind, putting him into a chokehold. He threw himself backwards; I hit the ground hard with Sebastian on top of me. We wrestled for several minutes before he drew a knife. He stabbed at my right leg, making a long cut into my thigh. I pulled my knife, and this time blocked Sebastian's blade, on the upstroke, I cut his face.

Suddenly, Micky grabbed me immobilizing my arms. It took the joint efforts of Chas, Cam and Stewart to hold back Sebastian. An hour later, Seb and I had calmed down. I treated both my own wounds and Seb"s.

Somehow, no charges were ever filed. My leg healed well, but I was left with recurrent leg pain. Sebastian was left with a scar down his right cheek running from below his right eye the corner of his mouth. I was the only team member who would stand up to the Colonel. I guess that's why I became the un-official second in command.

Sebastian also never struck a woman in front of me again.

We drank, we partied and we fought. I stupidly thought it could last forever.

* * *

Then came the battle with drug smugglers at an abandoned farm outside Kandahar. Our Intel was bad once again; the enemy was stronger than we had thought.

During the firefight, they shot Stewart. I scrambled to help him despite the rounds flying overhead, but Stew's leg gushed bright red blood. My bloody hands dug for the artery and I clamped it, but my teammate, Stew, was already dead. I performed CPR for thirty minutes before I collapsed. I blamed myself for Stewart's death; I was not fast enough or good enough. Sebastian blamed himself for leading us all into a trap.

We destroyed the smugglers compound, killing five and taking seven prisoner. We won the battle but lost Stewart. It was if we all had gaping wounds where our hearts should be.

The next night, we drank all night at a rundown compound that ran an ersatz bar for Westerners. It served warm American beer and cheap whiskey in filthy glasses. I loved that bar. We played cards and sang off-key and remembered Stewart.

We ignored the dust and flies while Chas kept the tunes rolling from his CD player. We took turns dancing with the one business girl, and then we danced with each other.

As the sun rose, I sat outside in the dirt, my head resting against the chilled stone of the old house. Seb stumbled out and sat next to me. We watched the sky change from indigo to a painfully beautiful lavender blue streaked with orange and red.

Unexpectedly, Seb stretched out and laid his head in my lap. I froze but gradually relaxed as he smiled at me. Cameron was still inside with the business girl. In the distance, Chas was making horrible sounds as he brought up all the liquor that he'd drunk. Micky had commandeered the CD player and played desperately depressing music, which he then tried to sing to.

I decided to join Micky in singing Dust in the Wind; the chill morning breeze blew dust and sand into my eyes, which is what made them water. Naturally, a soldier never cries.

Then Seb reached up to wipe my tears away with his warm, calloused fingers. His face was sad, almost tender. He didn't look cruel; he didn't look like a Colonel. He looked like a man about to…I swear to God, I thought he was going to kiss me. I didn't try to get away.

I was never sure; at that moment, did I want to kiss Sebastian?

Then Cameron came running out of the house, he was holding up his fatigues with one hand and carrying his boots in the other. A very angry man followed.

We all piled in the jeep; the very angry man hurled curses and rocks, and then he started shooting at us. I fired a few shots over his head, just to keep our side up.

Micky tried to drive while under the influence. Luckily, there wasn't much traffic on the dirt roads in Kandahar Province at 0540 hours. However we narrowly avoided a herd of goats and the young herder, who threw himself into the brush off the side of the road. We all thought that this was hysterically funny.

I never found out if Sebastian had wanted to kiss me.

If he had kissed me, would it have changed anything?

* * *

Two days later, Seb led us on another rescue mission. We stormed a house and took three insurgents prisoner and freed a hostage. I stabilized the broken arm of the hostage and treated his other wounds, most likely resulting from torture.

The second hostage was already dead; he was bruised and bloodied and burned. There were abrasions around his neck. I guessed that his captors had beaten and strangled him. I concentrated on treating my patient to prevent the anger and outrage from overwhelming me.

Then I heard gunshots, and Cam charged over to the trees where I knelt with the injured soldier. Under his bright red hair, Cam's skin was so ashen that his freckles popped out like currants in a pudding.

"John, get over there," gasped Cam. "The Colonel, he's shot the prisoners."

Of course, there was nothing I could do. The prisoners lay dead, judged and executed by Colonel Moran. He stared at us imperiously, and smoked a cigar. His cold blue raptor's eyes finally met mine.

"They were nothing but animals, rabid animals Johnny," he tried to justify it to me. "You all saw what they did. They're animals; they got what they deserved."

"We're supposed to be better than this, Colonel. We're supposed to be the good guys…" I said. As always, I had to be the one who tried to stand up to the Colonel.

"Don't be so naïve, Hobbit. We're not the good guys. There are no good guys. There are no heroes," Sebastian turned away. "Unbind their hands and throw them in the well. Then we all go back to the base."

I stood staring at a man I didn't know. The others looked around uncertainly.

"That wasn't a request ladies; that was an order, lets move it," snarled Colonel Moran.

The other three threw the bodies in the well. I stood by and let them.

I told myself that I needed to take care of my patient. I told myself that I had to follow orders. I told myself that the insurgents had deserved death. All of those things were true, but in the end, I allowed Seb to get away with a crime.

In the end I learned that there are no good guys; there are no heroes. And John Watson isn't one of the good guys either.

I began to suffer from nightmares. In the most common nighttime horror, I was handcuffed. The sun beat mercilessly down on my head; the sky was a cruel crystalline blue. Sebastian would walk over to me, the dust stirring in his steps. The dust was yellow ocher, and smelled like the chalk dust from primary school. I could taste the metallic tang from the blood as I bit my tongue. Sebastian shot me. I bled from my chest but I wasn't dead. Stewart and Sebastian picked me up and dropped me down the well. I was drowning and bleeding to death in the dark, cold well. The bodies of the dead prisoners crowded against me.

Trapped, I was trapped.

I would wake up in my tent, gasping and alone in the dark. I was sure that I was losing my mind.

We had followed Sebastian's orders, and then we told lies to cover for him. He wasn't particularly grateful. He seemed to feel that we had merely performed our duty. He resented that we had even questioned his actions.

Trust was gone from our unit. Sebastian was more bullying than ever. I got a black eye for stopping during a march to put a tourniquet on Cameron's arm. I wanted to punch Sebastian, but held back. Cam was bleeding, so I had to control myself and act like a doctor. During those terrible weeks, I finally learned to control my anger, at least most of the time.

Seb was falling apart. He was nervous and seldom slept. The bullying and cruelty escalated. He was openly sadistic now. People began to avoid Seb out of fear.

He refused to seek counseling. I finally convinced him to take leave; he was gone for four weeks.

It was honestly a relief when he was gone. My nightmares became rare; our team started to laugh again.

* * *

Sebastian came back happy and full of energy. He confided to me that he had a new boyfriend, a younger man, an Irishman. He said the man was a genius. Sebastian said his boyfriend was a businessman who was teaching Seb how to become rich and successful too.

I wasn't jealous so much as relieved. Now that Sebastian had a boyfriend, I didn't have to worry about that "almost an attraction" that happened after Stewart died. Sure Seb was handsome and exciting, but I had seen his cruelty and inhumanity first hand. Sebastian began to repel me.

It took nearly three months before I realized that some of our 'missions' were actually free-lance. In other words, Sebastian worked for some of the drug traffickers and smugglers; this was his new business model to be rich and successful like his Irish boyfriend.

I challenged Colonel Moran in front of the rest of the gang. I accused him of becoming one of the criminals.

He laughed and told me to grow up, that this was how the world worked. He told me to go to the base commander if I wanted to. He said the commander wouldn't care because Seb was always successful and because the army needed him. Besides, he laughed, "You have no proof."

My friends were uncomfortable but not ready to betray the Colonel.

I went to the base commander. I told him about Colonel Moran and his 'moonlighting'.

Surprise! The commander didn't care. Colonel Moran and his skills were useful to the army. The commander trusted Colonel Moran; the CO refused listen to mutinous talk from a subordinate. Besides, I had no proof.

Seb didn't trust me anymore but kept me on the team. I applied for transfer, but the army wanted me to stay. My superior officers claimed that my patients needed me. Translation, you are part of a team that we need, and we own you.

Our missions for the army were still successful, but I often didn't know whether I was serving my Queen and country or The Colonel. I put in for a transfer again; it was denied.

Trapped, I was trapped.

We had a mission on a cold winters morning. It was 0300 hours. The frigid,dry, desert air bit into my skin as it blew past. The sky was on fire with the milky way. The stars were so bright I thought I could reach out and grab one.

We went into a small ragged village to find insurgents. It was so early that I didn't smell the smoke from cooking fires yet. We snuck in and quietly went house to house looking for the enemy. I thought something was wrong. Yes it was early, but there should have been some outcry by now. I didn't hear any children crying, they always started crying. But I could hear the crack of a silenced firearm traveling in the sharp cold air.

While Chas watched, I went back to the first house that we had searched. In the light of my torch, an old couple lay on top of each other; each was shot in the head. I ran to another house, a man, a woman and two children had just been shot to death, execution style.

I ran to the last house that Chas and I had searched. I heard the sound of a suppressed firearm fired twice. I ran in panicked. Seb had his Sig Saur out with a silencer mounted. The old woman and the young man, that I had just spoken to, were lying dead on the dirt floor. Sebastian was pointing his sidearm at a girl, a skinny teen-ager in a ragged tunic who was trying to protect two toddlers.

I remember that I screamed at the Colonel.

I stood in front of the three kids, and I screamed. "Stand down, Colonel. Just get out of here. Get out of this house and out of this village." I waited for him to shoot me instead. Chas watched from the doorway, his face distorted and confused in the light from our torches.

"You don't give me orders Captain. These animals threatened me, and I shot them," snarled my old friend, Sebastian Moran.

"Really? Where are their weapons? And these kids, they were a threat too?" I screamed. The children were wailing now. "And the others, the old people and the family next door? They were threats? Jesus God," I turned to Chas, "Chas send Cam or Micky to check the other houses. Tell the Colonel to stand down."

"You stand down Captain Watson, that's an order. Stand aside, or I will shoot you," Sebastian leered at me from behind his Sig Saur.

Micky shoved Chas aside; his handsome black face was drawn, as if in pain. He aimed his rifle at our team leader.

"Colonel, drop the gun and step out of the house," demanded Micky. His eyes narrowed, "Chas, Johnny, there's bodies in six of the houses. They're all unarmed civilians. There's children… they're dead…"

I walked forward and yanked the gun out of Sebastian's hand. Sebastian snarled, "You're an idiot. I'm following instructions. I'll get out of this and you, you stupid narrow-minded little man, your army days are over. You're a traitor. You're all mutinous traitors!" He strode out of the house as if he were royalty.

There are no heroes, John.

* * *

There were sixteen dead. Two of the wounded survived only because I, a trauma surgeon, was on the scene.

We brought Colonel Moran back under restraints. I presented pictures, bodies, two wounded and the Colonel's gun as evidence. We were all confined to quarters. There was a secret, expedited investigation.

In the end, Colonel Moran was relieved of duty. They exonerated the remaining team members, including me, The investigators found that the Colonel's gun had caused all the wounds. All of the team provided alibis for each other. We were not accused of mutiny.

The army hushed up the massacre. Families and friends of the victims were given gifts (Oh yes, bribes). Our team would be broken up and transferred separately.

Before our transfer, I led an emergency medevac. We were sent to rescue wounded soldiers who were stuck amid an ongoing firefight. Micky insisted on coming along to watch my back. We headed into an ambush.

The ambulance in front of us was hit with an RPG or IED. I never found out which. We swerved and slid into a wall. I scrambled out to help the wounded from the first ambulance. The sun was shining inanely through the smoke and dust as men tried to kill each other. I was I was treating a soldier with shrapnel wound when a round hit Micky, right in the forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground. I felt surprise that he looked so peaceful.

I was next. Something slammed into my shoulder so hard that I fell backwards. I struggled up and dragged the wounded soldier and myself over to our ambulance behind the wall. I stopped his bleeding. Then I became confused, if the soldier wasn't bleeding, where was all this blood coming from. It was soaking my shirt; it pooled on the ground. It was horrible and mesmerizing and red.

Oh. It's me; I'm bleeding to death. The pain and burning finally hit me. I began to list to one side. Bill was on top of me, putting pressure on the wound, calling for the medics, calling for IV's. I thought, "please God, don't let me die". The world became blurry and I blacked out.

My friend and nurse, Bill Murray, saved my life.

I went in for surgery, then the ICU, then surgery, then ICU, then more surgery. There was infection. The muscles in my shoulder didn't want to knit back together. There was nerve damage. The trauma and pain meds kept me in a confused fog for nearly four weeks. I finally regained my wits in a hospital in England. Harry was by my side, tearful and sometimes even sober.

I was eventually sent for rehab. At first they thought I might not regain the use of my arm. I fought to get off the pain meds that I was addicted to. I struggled to regain full use of my arm, but the tremor persisted.

It was seven weeks before I was able to contact Bill. He told me that Micky and I were the victims of friendly fire. The round that they pulled out of my shoulder was from a L115A3, coincidently Seb's favorite weapon. The round that killed Micky was from the same gun. The actual weapon was never located. The shooter was never officially identified.

Sebastian had disappeared; he was dishonorably discharged but faced no other punishment for his actions.

I contacted Chas and Cameron. We knew who fired the rounds that killed Micky and almost killed me. We figured we were all marked men and watched our backs.

I tried to track down Sebastian but all records of him had vanished. I couldn't even find his birth records. Interestingly, my own records had been altered. For instance, there was no mention of Colonel Sebastian Moran, the massacre at the village, the investigation or even the report about the L115A3. Many of the 'unofficial' missions would not have been on my record, but at least a couple dozen less sensitive missions should have been recorded. There were no records of my years spent with Colonel Moran. My record looked like any other army doctor's record, dull and ordinary. People should wonder how I was ever awarded any medals at all, based on that record.

Four months after Micky's death, Cameron was killed in a hit and run accident.

Chas suffered a nervous breakdown. The army said he had PTSD and paranoia. Chas disappeared. He was presumed dead.

The army gave me medical discharge. The army didn't want me anymore, a surgeon with a hand tremor and a limp. Anyway I was tainted by my unofficial service with the Colonel. Of course, my betrayal of the Colonel, my superior officer, was probably the most damning reason of all, even if there was no record of it.

I had lost my entire way of life. I had lost my friends. My last remaining friend was undoubtedly going to try to kill me.

On the other hand, I had learned a lot from Sebastian. I learned that there are no good guys; there are no heroes. I learned that I should never trust anyone.

Then I met the madman named Sherlock Holmes.

I never told Sherlock about the war. He never asked. I never thought about Sebastian's boyfriend, the Irishman. I don't make those connections like Sherlock does. Had he been in my shoes, Sherlock would have realized right away that Moriarty was the Irish businessman and lover of Sebastian. I on the other hand was only putting the puzzle together now, three years too late.

However, I bet Sherlock probably knew all about Sebastian and me. He probably returned to London to extract my information on Sebastian. I only hoped that I could help protect Sherlock until I eliminated Sebastian, my old brother-in-arms.


	6. Chapter 6 A Question of Loyalties

**A/N **Uh,oh. Is Sebastian on his way to Baker Street? Whose side will John be on?

**Ritual Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. The rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Messrs Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.

**Chapter 6 A Question of Loyalties**

"Sherlock, you have to bring me and John up to speed here. Who the heck is Moran, and what does he have to do with Moriarty?" asked Detective Inspector Lestrade as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Lestrade seemed a bit overwhelmed by it all.

I explained that Moran had been Moriarty's second in command. I said that Moran was a sniper and was now the last significant threat remaining from Moriarty's criminal network

The Detective Inspector had more questions about how I dismantled that network. Then he asked about Moran. I confessed that I had very few hard facts about Sebastian Moran. I had heard rumors, and I had questioned a few people who knew a bit about the former soldier. I had yet to question anyone who actually knew him well.

I admitted that Mycroft's agents had helped to locate and track Sebastian Moran, and only because Moran was now hunting me. I felt a twinge of disappointment when John did not join in to ask questions.

I then presented my plans to lure Sebastian Moran to London. I did not reveal that a main goal of my plan was to get John and Lestrade safely out of London. Only then would Mycroft and I pursue and eliminate Moran.

We discussed the plans with Lestrade. Oddly, John still did not participate in our discussion; he seemed distracted. John sat with his head in his hand, looking out at Baker Street under the streetlights. Perhaps, I deduced, he was watching for assassins.

As planned, Mycroft announced that Moran had arrived at Brighton by private yacht. I successfully convinced Lestrade to accompany John to Brighton in the morning.

"John," I said, breaking his reverie. "John have you been paying attention? You volunteered to help; and I am grateful. I would like you and Lestrade to travel to Brighton tomorrow morning. You will meet with one of Mycroft's agents."

On cue, my brother smoothly added, "Margery Pierce, a lovely, young woman with auburn hair. I am glad that you will be able to assist her. I was uncomfortable with her tracking a dangerous man like Moran alone."

Margery was bait. I knew that John would not be able to resist aiding a woman, a lovely young woman, who was in potential danger. Once John was out-of-the-way, I could safely lure Moran to 221B Baker Street. Then I would eliminate him, once and for all.

"We should probably get an early start John," said Lestrade yawning tiredly. I nodded and looked to John for his eager acquiescence.

John tilted his chin up and furrowed his brow. Then he smiled and shook his head.

"John?" Lestrade and I asked in puzzled unison. Mycroft frowned deeply.

"Sorry, I'm very sorry Sherlock," said John with devilish grin. "but you're both so serious. You and Mycroft make a great acting team, like Abbot and Costello. And here I thought you didn't like to work together. Did you really think that I would believe that an agent of Mycroft's would need any assistance from me or Lestrade," John chuckled.

"I'm really sorry, but I have to refuse this very important assignment, Sherlock. Honestly, we both know that Moran wasn't spotted in Brighton," said my blogger. "Why on earth would you be here, if your quarry was in Brighton? It's ridiculous. And if there is a Margery Pierce, that's not her real name and she could probably hand me my balls on a plate in 30 seconds or less. That is, if she really is an agent of Mycroft's."

Lestrade scowled at me and at Mycroft; he seemingly agreed with John.

I frowned at John; it was proving to be very difficult to remove John to safety.

"Sherlock, you clearly aren't here to ask for my help in capturing the Colonel or you wouldn't have tried to send me to Brighton," continued John with narrowed eyes. "He most certainly isn't in Brighton. I bet he's coming to this flat, and you want to get rid of me before he comes." John gave a little nod of his head; then he added with widened eyes. "Furthermore, I won't be got rid of Sherlock. Not this time. You are stuck with me at least until we deal with Sebastian ."

John was magnificent. I had never seen him deduce so well. Nevertheless, my priority was to protect my best friend from harm.

"John you must follow my instructions in this matter," I said. "Moran is too dangerous for you to face safely. It will be best for me to deal with Moran alone while you wait with Lestrade."

"Oh sod that Sherlock Bloody Holmes. This is St. Bart's all over again. Well, I won't have it," exploded John the crease between his eyes returned. "I can face Moran as well as anyone and probably better than you."

"John, this is my case. I will decide who I work with…" I started.

"Yes and Colonel Sebastian Moran is my problem. Once he's been neutralized you can make all the decisions that you want. You can find a new partner if you want and throw me out of this flat. Whatever," said John with what I can only describe as his officer's voice, "For now, we're a bloody team, and if you attempt to leave here without me, I will take you down and handcuff you." He brandished a pair of handcuffs in his hand threateningly. When did he acquire the handcuffs?

Mycroft glared at John and moved to loom threateningly over my blogger. Why? Why is he threatening John?

Oh, John said "Colonel", John somehow knows that Sebastian Moran was a Colonel.

"Dr. Watson, you amaze me," said my brother in his silkiest voice. "How did you know that Moran was a Colonel?

"What? I served with him of course," John said looking a bit confused. "You must have known that, or why else would you have come here tonight."

"Explain Dr Watson," demanded Mycroft smoothly. Mycroft was now at his most dangerous. John was unperturbed. I was uncertain how to proceed. How? How did John know about Moran?

"Explain what?" demanded John with his chin thrust out belligerently, his blue eyes focused on Mycroft. "You obviously came here tonight to pump me for information on Sebastian."

"No John, that's not why I came," I said.

"Then why did you come here?" John asked. He rubbed his forehead as he glowered.

'As I have said John, I came to protect you from Moran, which I intend to do," I said. My sentiment toward John Watson was stronger than ever; in spite of the imminent danger, I found his sulking endearing. Dare I say it; I found it cute

"Perhaps I can help answer Mycroft's question." I thought out loud. "Colonel Moran's records have all been erased. After years of questioning, I did find that he served in Afghanistan. He led a small team of operatives on sensitive and very dangerous missions. Apparently they undertook missions that no one else would touch."

I continued, "Very little seems to be known about Moran or his team. Like Moran, the team has disappeared. An informant, who couldn't or wouldn't reveal any names, described some of that team. Moran was tall, blond and handsome but had a scar that ran from his right eye to his mouth. One of the team members was a tall, thin black man who was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and another was a large redheaded man who was an expert in survival and mountain climbing. He also remembered a blond man who was a medic, a crack shot and a sniper; a man whose nickname was… the Hobbit."

Stupid. Stupid, I am so stupid. It had stared me in the face for months. How did I miss this connection? How did I overlook a short blond army medic who just happened to be a crack shot? How did I miss the fact that the team's disappearance coincided with John's medical discharge from the army? I had let sentiment blind me once again. Stupid.

John blushed again and pursed his lips. "The combat expert was Micky and the survivalist was Cam. It figures that they would remember that stupid Hobbit nickname. You know, I'm not really short. I'm average height. It isn't my fault that some people suffer from congenital tall stature and like to lord it over others." He glared at Mycroft who still stood over John like an urbane vulture.

"John forgive me for missing the obvious. I have lost valuable time already. Please just tell me about Moran," I asked. I hoped that John would help me. I hoped he would choose me over his former army leader, but I was not at all sure that he would.

John gave us a short summary of his two years in Afghanistan with Moran. Naturally John had volunteered for a dangerous special force mission. Of course, his worth was quickly appreciated, and he joined the team without receiving any special training. In the end, John said that Moran became unbalanced and dangerous, and naturally it was up to John to turn him in. The army released the unbalanced sniper, which nearly resulted in the death of my blogger before I even met him.

"You can stop looking at me like that Mycroft," said John irritably. "I served under Sebastian Moran, but I'm also the one who turned him in for misconduct. I know where my loyalties lie. I chose my side years ago, as you should remember. It's the army that let him go so that he could kill Micky, Chas and Cam."

"John, before you turned him in, how did Moran feel about you? Were you friends or perhaps something more?" I asked, even though I was almost afraid of the answer. What if John and Moran…

"Our team did almost everything together, and the Colonel was our leader. I thought of him as my best friend, but I don't think he cared about anyone other than his boyfriend and possibly Stewart."

John seemed to swallow with difficultly. "Once Seb got a boyfriend he seemed, um, less friendly to me. He bragged about his rich and powerful boyfriend, his sexy boyfriend, his Irish boyfriend. At the time I thought he was trying to make me jealous, but personally, I was relieved that he had a boyfriend. Um, I only figured this out tonight, but I'm pretty sure his boyfriend was James Moriarty."

Ah, another oversight on my par, Moriarty and Moran. I should have returned to John a year ago or more. But I never guessed that John would be a font of information on Moran.

"Oh for heaven's sake, that's guess-work," said my brother caustically.

"Maybe, but it makes sense," insisted John. "Seb's boyfriend was rich and young and Irish-just like Moriarty."

"I agree with John," I said, as the pieces of a puzzle came together. "Of course, if Moriarty was Moran's lover then Moran's insistence on killing me makes more sense. Instead of following Moriarty's instructions to kill John, Moran plots revenge against me for Moriarty's death, because he blames me for his lover's death."

"Yes, thank you Sherlock. That's exactly what I think," said John.

Mycroft suddenly sniffed. It was the Mycroft equivalent of a groan. He was reading a text. He raised his cold eyes up to meet mine. "Sherlock, Moran is here in London, right now. Two of my agents are already dead. He must be on his way here."

I froze. Three miserable years of hunting down Moriarty's thugs to protect John, and now Moran is on his way here. After all of John's grief and my loneliness, John is still in extreme danger. Mycroft and I stared at each other.

"OK, Everyone, out of this room; we're all targets right now. Well, let's move it," barked Captain John Watson. He ran to shut off all the lights. "Into the bedroom, it's a bit less vulnerable to attack. Whatever your plans were Mr. Genius, we need new plans now."

Once in the bedroom, I could faintly see John by the light coming in around the blinds. John ripped off his gym pants. He ignored the stares of my brother and Lestrade; I tried to block their view of John with my body.

John pulled on his jeans and fumbled with the zipper. He turned to me, "Fix the zipper for me Sherlock, hurry," he demanded in his Captain's voice. I adjusted his jeans and zipped them shut. There was no trace of his shyness now.

John shoved his feet into boots. He slipped his handgun into his waistband with the handcuffs. When had he reacquired his gun?

Apparently, John felt he was ready for battle. My blogger now kept his eyes fixed on me. He positioned himself between the door, and me as if I might suddenly vanish.

Mycroft and Lestrade were whispering over plans to flood the street with their incompetent minions. "No, no, no" I said furious. "Don't be idiotic. There will be no police or agents on the street. They would drive Moran away. I'll be the bait and …"

"Change of plans, Sherlock, the bait idea is a no go," said John, hefting his handcuffs in his hand.

I ran my hand through my hair. It was all happening too fast again, just like at St. Bart's. It was too fast and John was in danger. "John, it's me that Moran wants. I have to lure him closer…"

"Oh sod that, he'd probably come for me too Sherlock," said John. "Look I'm not about to lose you again and that's final. You have no idea what you'd be asking me to do, you really don't," John's voice cracked with strain. "So if you don't want _me _to be bait, and I won't let _you_ be bait, then you need to come up with another plan."

"John Watson, give me that gun," said Mycroft. He held his hand out as he towered over John. John's left fist curled up tight. I briefly considered warning my brother but he had attacked John a few too many times now. "You will have to come with me Dr. Watson. I find it suspicious that Moran shows up now, just when Sherlock arrives at your flat. You will remain in custody until Sherlock apprehends Moran…"

Mycroft's speech was cut short when his face met John's fist.

"You and your brother brought the Colonel here Mycroft Holmes; I haven't seen him or heard from him since he tried to kill me. Besides, I don't care a rat's arse if you trust me or not. I will not permit Sherlock to approach that spec ops sniper alone," snarled my blogger. "And Mycroft, do _not_ try to get between me and Sherlock."

John heroically stood up to the British Government. Then he pinched shut the Government's bleeding nose. Mycroft squeaked. "Oh it's just a bloody nose," said my dangerous blogger. "Don't be such a baby Mycroft . Pinch it. Oh come on, you have to pinch it so it stops bleeding. Trust me, I'm a doctor.

**A/N **Please review and let me know what you like and don't like. Constructive criticism is most welcome.


	7. Chapter 7 Sticking Together

**Ritual Disclaimer **(First a question, why do we all put in these disclaimers anyway?) Now for the disclaimer. I don't own the rights to anything Sherlockian. Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC

**Chapter 7 Sticking Together**

My brother held a towel over his bloody nose; it really didn't bleed much. John rubbed his knuckles and watched me intently.

"You should have hit him harder," I whispered in John's ear. Even in the darkened room, I could see John's eyes widen.

"I'm saving my hand for the Colonel," whispered my blogger. His breath on my ear sent distracting chills down my spine. Interesting. Disturbing.

"Stop whispering like school girls. Sherlock you need to tell us your plan," grumbled Lestrade. He seemed upset bout my brother's very minor injury. At least now, the Detective inspector kept his distance from John.

"Let me begin by asking you a question John," I said, "Do you actually believe that I came back and endangered your life for five-year old information? I see that you do. Allow me to assuage your concerns."

I continued, "Until tonight, I did not realize, that you had any connection to Moran prior to my confrontations with Moriarty. I returned tonight to protect you from Moran. It is that simple. I hope that you will one day be able to trust me again. Regardless, I shall continue to protect you."

John chewed his lip and glanced up at the dark ceiling. He seemed to be watching me less intently; this might be the best time to leave John, for his own good. I edged toward the door.

"Now to address your concerns Lestrade. I cannot tell you anymore of my plans as they depend on Moran's actions." I said. I continued to monitor John's carefully. "You should take Mycroft and make sure that your minions are in order and staying away from this street. John you should go with him and make sure that…"

John cut me off, "Sherlock, I'm not leaving you…"

I made a rush toward the door knowing that, in the dark, John would trip over the laundry basket allowing me to escape. As I expected, John tripped over the basket. He fell with a grunt of pain, but managed to grab my ankle in a vise-like grip. I fell too and turned to push him away. I felt him twist my left hand behind my back. Within seconds, the handcuffs were attached to my left wrist and John's broken right arm.

"I warned you Sherlock Holmes," John said smiling grimly. He panted heavily. I worried that his fall and the cuffs had exacerbated his arm pain. "You can be rid of me only after Sebastian is neutralized."

I brought John physical as well as emotional pain. I endangered his life. His attachment to me really made no sense. I tried to reason with him again.

"John, I can't risk you getting hurt, and you'll only be a liability with your injury. You'll slow me down and make it easy for Moran to target me." I needed to be harsh and cruel. I would have to drive my blogger away; it was just too dangerous for him to come with me.

"Right, I'm a liability. I can see that. I'm practically helpless," he looked significantly at our linked arms. "Just so you know, I can shoot just as accurately with my left hand as with my right. I assume you are planning on hiding somewhere and surprising old Seb? Well, you're going to need backup."

John seemed impervious to my attack. "John, I can pick the cuffs," I said although I sensed defeat.

"No you can't, these are an improved model. Besides, I won't let you try. You are behaving illogically. You are wasting time. You are wasting our opportunity to catch Sebastian. So let's move on." Said John with obviously forced nonchalance.

"Mowan ill ee ere son," said my injured brother. My brother seemed curiously unconcerned that I was handcuffed to the man that he had considered a potential hazard only twenty-eight minutes earlier.

"Stop talking Mycroft. I can't understand you; besides you'll make your nose bleed again," said my blogger callously. "And didn't I tell you to pinch your nose and lean forward.

Then John asked, "Have you come up with a new and improved plan yet Sherlock? One where you aren't trying to get rid of me?," John thought for a few seconds as he chewed his lips in the darkened bedroom. "I mean, you can get rid of me later if you want, after Moran is eliminated. Just not now, when you're in danger."

Idiot, as if I would ever want to get rid of you John.

"Idiot. I'm not trying to get rid of you, I'm trying to protect you as I've told you repeatedly tonight. I do find all this repetition dull," I frowned to myself when I found my hand on his injured arm, gently rubbing it to reduce the pain.

"Well, we're losing time," I said. John sighed loudly; I imagine, he also rolled his eyes.

"Yes! We shall build the bait right here," I announced.

I strode out through the kitchen and into the sitting room. John was pulled behind me, and as soon as I entered the sitting room, he shoved me down to the floor.

"You said there is a sniper on his way here to kill you. You need to keep out of the line of sight. That means avoid the windows and keep down low. Got it?" he asked.

"Fine John," I ignored his muttered patter about careless gits and irresponsible maniacs. I was distracted by the elegance of my newest plan. I placed a lamp without a shade in my old chair. I wrapped some shirts around the top of the lamp. "String, wire, spoons and a mop." I demanded.

Lestrade brought back all the items I requested, once again demonstrating his over-familiarity with my blogger's flat. Nevermind, I will deal with that later. Mycroft brought surgical tape and gauze from the table. His bleeding had stopped for now.

My brother instantly deduced what I was making and was helpful for once in his life. John and Lestrade helped as best they could given their more ordinary minds.

Mycroft and I finished the bait. I lowered the blinds and he placed a bright light in front of our creation. The shadow it cast onto the blind was a fair approximation of myself.

"Brilliant. That is just brilliant Sherlock!" I turned towards John assuming that this was sarcasm. However John beamed at me. It was his wide-eyed boyish grin that he had rarely shared with anyone besides me. His blue eyes glowed with admiration. John. My John. "Now what?" he asked.

"Lestrade go out the back and keep your men two streets away, and take Mycroft. You must keep all your men away or Moran will be spooked off. I can not waste this opportunity," I said.

"Right," said John, back to his officers voice. "Greg, please take my laptop and give it to Anderson. Tell him that the case files are on it and not to let anyone touch it," I caught John glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I had thought that John had forgotten the laptop. I added that to my list of things to take care of later.

"But John, do you know what are you and Sherlock going to do?" asked Lestrade.

"I have no idea. Sherlock probably has some scheme figured out that will backfire and require me to shoot someone," said John. I tried to refrain from looking disappointed. "Don't worry; I'll handle Sherlock and the Colonel. I'll try to phone you when I know more. And Sherlock, stop pouting," he finished

For some reason, Mycroft smirked at my blogger as if John had passed some obscure Mycroft test. I found it highly irritating. I believe that I shall have to encourage John to hit Mycroft more often.

"Sherlock my agents will be nearby. Shall I send a couple to animate your manikin,?" Mycroft asked.

I sighed and nodded. It was a good idea but once again Mycroft was interfering.

Then my brother put his hand on Lestrade's arm and nodded at the door. Lestrade looked at John and me, handcuffed together and shook his head. He was probably jealous. "Fine," he said, "Be careful and good luck."

"I'm going to regret this," Lestrade muttered. He left down the stairs with Mycroft.

John quietly asked me to tie his boot laces.

"Well are you ready to go Sherlock?" asked John innocently, once I had assisted him.

"Certainly," I said. "Remove the cuffs…"

"I'll remove the cuffs when we are in position, and not a moment sooner," John said. At least he was smiling at me.

Irrationally, I thought of a way to wipe that smile off of his face.

Wait, was I thinking about kissing John while planning to meet up with the second most dangerous opponent of my career? That's a bit not good. Still, it was a good idea. I stored that idea in the purple room in John's wing of my mind palace.

"John…," I began. John licked his lip again, a nervous habit. I looked down into his dark eyes. John checked the cuffs to be sure they were secure.

I deduced that he was waiting for me to try to leave him again. He was tense, steeling himself for the pain of abandonment. I cannot hurt John like that again, not even to save his life.

Very well, John will be coming with me.

"Very well John. We are going to the empty set of flats across the street. We will wait together for Moran. He will no doubt select that location to shoot into our flat at my masque. Perhaps you can tell me more about him while we wait. It is quite obvious that you have left out a great deal. You can also remove these theatrical handcuffs."

I found myself smiling at John and he was grinning back. John, my loyal companion was by my side again. I felt complete and whole for the first time in three years because John and I were finally together.

**A/N **I hope you enjoyed reading this**. **Chapter 8 is almost finished, unfortunately the working title is Divided Loyalties. I guess John will have to make some choices.

As always, I would appreciate reviews.


	8. Chapter 8 Divided Loyalties

**Ritual Disclaimer **I do not own anything related to Sherlock Holmes. Those rights belonged to ACD and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.

**Chapter 8 Divided Loyalties**

"John," Sherlock called me to attention in his deep baritone voice. God I had missed that voice so much. I turned to look at the World's Only Consulting Detective. Hopefully he wouldn't catch me mooning over him like a fangirl.

Sherlock and I waited together for my old friend Seb to arrive at the empty rooms across from our flat. Sherlock paced around the dusty, dark sitting room in the vacant flat. As he passed in front of the windows, I watched his unkempt curls bounce.

Moments before, I had relented and removed the handcuffs that bound the mad detective to me. Sherlock massaged his left wrist where the manacle had rubbed. I had seriously considered keeping him attached to me all night, but maybe that was just a wee bit overprotective. I also supposed that it might make it hard to deal with an armed assassin.

Across the street I could see the shadow cast by Sherlock's "manikin". It moved slightly, presumably one of Mycroft's minions tugged at it with a string. The two agents in 221B were the only ones within two blocks of our location, as per the great detective's instructions..

"John," he called me again, "it is time to divulge the remainder of your information on Sebastian Moran."

"Sherlock, couldn't you just say "Tell me about Moran" I asked.

"I thought I just did," said the World's Only Consulting Detective. He was still pacing and rubbing his hands together; he almost seemed nervous. Of course I must be wrong. He was excited; he couldn't wait to face the Colonel.

"Sherlock this is neither the time nor the place for gossip…" I started.

Sherlock was in my face, leaning down in his threatening pose. "Not gossip, data. I need data John." I pushed him back and walked over to the dark corner opposite the windows. His voice followed me, "Your relationship with Moran could affect everything that happens. What if you can't bring yourself to shoot him? What if he attacks you, and you can't defend yourself?" Sherlock sounded almost frantic, he was ruffling his hair and it looked wild, wild and sexy. Oh for God's sake, stop it Watson, this is no time for wild thoughts.

I had to stop and think. What's got Sherlock so upset? Is he actually afraid of Sebastian? Oh lord, what was Sherlock's question? Oh yeah. Seb. Can I shoot Sebastian Moran? Good question.

Earlier I had thought only of the threat posed to Sherlock, and Sebastian had seemed expendable. Shooting Seb seemed easy.

I still wanted to protect Sherlock; I had to protect Sherlock. Yet with each passing minute, it became harder to dismiss the life of my former friend and brother officer. Christ, there had been a time when Sebastian and I would have died for each other.

Then there was the promise. Chas had made me swear that if I ever tracked down Seb, I would try to help our former team leader. I was supposed to lead Seb away from his life of crime. Chas expected me to act like some kind of freakin Jedi to bring Seb back from the dark-side. It would be funny except someone was surely going down tonight.

How do I save Sherlock? How do I save Sebastian? How do I keep my promise to Chas? I am so screwed.

"John, John? I need data," He came closer again and stared at me. "Well, what's wrong" he asked.

"Nothing. It's fine. I'm fine." I answered hurriedly. My thoughts were more and more scattered. Just this morning I thought Sherlock Holmes was dead. Hell I even thought Seb might have been killed somewhere along the line since I had heard nothing of him for years.

I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

I received another raised eyebrow and a sideways glance. If he only knew what he did to me with that sideways glance. I loved that look when his intelligence shone through, but it was also his deducing look. I am so screwed.

"John, you can't answer me." And let the deductions begin. "Why? Because Moran was your friend, possibly your best friend, but was he more? He was your leader. You admired him; he was your hero. Was he your lover?"

"No Sherlock, he wasn't," I said. He grabbed my good wrist and pulled me in closer. His face was only inches from mine; his brows lowered in fierce concentration. He was going to suck the truth out of me like a vampire.I was much too tired and confused to resist.

"OK," I confessed. "_Maybe_, one time, we almost kissed, but in the end we didn't," I ended lamely.

"You wanted him to kiss you," said Sherlock sharply, he gripped my wrist tighter. His accusing eyes shot glints of reflected light at me. Oh God, I shouldn't have told him the truth. Now he'll hate me. I hate me.

"Maybe, I don't know. I wasn't sure even back then, OK?" I looked down at the floor ashamed. Still, I had to finish this now. "It's true, I admired the Colonel and I thought he was a friend. For awhile I thought he was my best friend. But looking back I don't know if he was ever really my friend. Seb was always a bully; he had a real mean streak. He didn't treat any of us like real friends. Then after Stewart died, Sebastian seemed to turn into a vicious, rabid animal."

I laughed a little; did it sound just a bit hysterical? "That's what the Colonel always called his victims. He said they were animals, rabid animals, who didn't deserve any better. Jeeze, I'm starting to think like him. Do you think I'll turn out just like him?"

"No John. Don't be ridiculous…" said Sherlock.

I ignored him and continued on, "He wasn't a friend or war hero after Stew died. Who knows, maybe he had a thing for Stew. Seb became a criminal, a gangster, an assassin. He should have been tried for war crimes. I guess his powerful boyfriend got him off. You realize that he killed everyone on our team? Hell, I'm only here now because Bill resuscitated me after I bled out," I fought to keep my voice low. I wanted to yell. All the hurt and anger from Sebastian's betrayal returned as if it had happened yesterday.

I couldn't stop myself from thinking that really, Sherlock had betrayed me too. He left me to sink or swim after St. Bart's.

No, wrong. Sherlock said he was trying to protect me. That's different right? Yeah, I have to pull myself together and concentrate. I have to get ready for the Colonel.

I looked up. Sherlock still studied my face intently, like an experiment gone horribly wrong. He finally released my wrist. Oh God, he can probably read my mind. He probably knows all my doubts and fears. It probably disgusts him. What if it makes him leave? Of course it will make him leave; I'd leave.

"John this isn't going to work. You have too many ties to this man," said Sherlock softly, his eyes dark now.

"No Sherlock, this has to work. Ties be damned. You can't face Sebastian alone. You need me whether you like it or not." I hissed. "You can be rid of me after we deal with Sebastian. Look, the Sebastian I knew as a leader and a friend doesn't exist anymore. Maybe he never did. He's a murderer and a war criminal. He has to be stopped one way or another." I glared up at the lanky detective. "I _will_ stop him Sherlock."

"Now what else do you need to know, remembering that this is five-year old information," I continued. "Do you want to know his favorite soda? Orange Crush. His favorite color? Tan. His favorite soap? Irish Spring. Get it? Irish Spring." Sherlock looked at me nonplussed. Then his lip turned up a fraction. I had to smile. I felt better just seeing that little half-smile on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock paced in silence for a few minutes, then he whirled back to me, his coat flying behind him."The reason you didn't kiss Moran was because he was a man?" asked Sherlock.

"Hmm, no. I have nothing against kissing a man, um, the right man, and he... wasn't the right man." I said.

My head hurt and my arm ached. I was cold and confused. I was trapped between old loyalties, old promises and my loyalty to Sherlock. Oh hell, lets not forget the elephant in the room Watson. I loved Sherlock Holmes, does that trump officer's oaths and promises?

I wandered into a dark corner to sit and rest while the genius played with his mobile phone. Maybe he'll just let history rest now. Maybe I can sort this all out before the Colonel got here.

"John, John where are you?" Sherlock whispered loudly. He looked around wildly. Apparently, I was completely hidden in the shadows.

"Over here Sherlock, I'm in the corner." I whispered back and stood up.

"This is excellent cover John! I can't see you at all," he said excitedly. He swooped over to my corner like an enormous bat. He waved his hands in front of him until he hit my shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes loomed over me. He put his hands on my shoulders. "You are brilliant, John," he said quietly.

I shuddered at his touch. His warm breath fluttered past my face. My mouth went dry, and all my well-reasoned resolutions flew out the second story window of this damned empty flat.

Right, what the hell do I have to lose? I could very well die in the next hour. I can always claim later that I had a concussion, or shock, or PTSD. I could claim temporary insanity. Just go for it Watson.

I reached up and put my hand in those wild curls. They were as soft as I imagined. I pulled him down and kissed him. His lips were dry and warm. He smelled of lavender and cinnamon and it flooded my senses. I ran my tongue across his lips just once. It was a hard unyielding kiss, and God I loved it.

Sherlock seemed to have frozen into a statue.

"Um. For good luck," I said, "It's, it's a line from Star Wars. Yeah, Princess Leia…"

Wait wouldn't that make me Princess Leia? Hell no, Sherlock can be the Princess.

I really have lost my mind. "Um don't worry about it Sherlock, it's just for good luck." I ducked further into the corner and checked over my gun.

Time to choose sides Dr. Watson.

**TBC**

**A/N **I'm sure John will choose Sherlock. After all Sebastian is just an old army buddy and best friend...

Hey, please consider reviewing. Suggestions and criticism is most welcome.


	9. Chapter 9 Judas

**A/N **Warnings for violence, character death and non-consensual kissing

**Ritual Disclaimer **I do not hold any rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Those rights belong to ACD, the BBC and Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss.

**Chapter 9 Judas**

I slunk into the corner feeling like a stupid sophomore. My lips still felt warm from that brief kiss. Maybe I'll never wash my lips again. I giggled at that thought; definitely an edge of hysteria here.

I pretended to check my gun for the fiftieth time. Sherlock ignored me and checked his mobile phone for texts. He said nothing about The Kiss. Well, that speaks volumes. Sherlock Holmes is still married to his work.

"John, he's coming," said Sherlock looking up from his mobile's screen. He punched in a text and then dropped the phone into his pocket.

He came into the darkened corner, pushing me further back.

"Sherlock, I won't be able to get a clear shot if you stand in front of me," I pointed out.

"John, you cannot shoot him until he has committed himself by attempting to murder the manikin," said Sherlock coldly. Oh God he hates me now, I thought. "Also I may be able to extract information from him…"

"You're an idiot. You can't negotiate with the Colonel. If you give him half a chance, he'll kill you. He's probably got two or three guns and an assortment of knives on him," I argued. "I might be able to disarm him, if I have a clear shot."

"John, I work best alone now, but it's too late for you to leave. Just stay back and follow my lead," said the arrogant git. Then he softened, he reached out and touched my shoulder. "Don't be nervous John."

"Nervous? Who's nervous? Just because I'm standing in the dark with a madman waiting for another madman who wants to kill the first madman…"

"Shh, we need to be quiet, John," whispered Sherlock.

"Don't shush me!" I whispered back. "And you stay out of my line of fire; I mean it."

I stood next to the unmoving statue. Of course, I'm not nervous.

Sebastian is a killer. I refuse to feel anything for Sebastian, and I will kill him unless he surrenders which he won't. And Chas would understand; oh bloody hell, Chas would not understand.

My heart was pounding and I couldn't swallow. Good thing my mouth was already dry. I'm certainly not nervous.

I almost missed it, but Sherlock twitched. He stood with his head tilted, listening for all the world like a guard dog. I raised my handgun, but I heard nothing.

A tall, dark shape glided silently into the room. I instantly recognized Seb, just by his movements. His motions were economical and graceful; they spoke of his strength. Seb had always been so sure and strong.

He flicked something out from his mouth and into a corner. Of course I knew that it was a toothpick. I had seen that motion a hundred times before the start of a hundred missions.

He knelt down to the hardwood floor; he opened a case and began to set up a rifle. I could see, even in the dim light, that it was a L155A3 sniper rifle. How the hell did he get a hold of military gun?

I studied his profile against the window. I could see his handsome, rugged face moving in and out of the light from the street. That light bleached his hair an unearthly white. The light showed the scar that ran down his face from his eye to his mouth. I gave him that scar, and I stitched it up afterwards.

There are no words to describe what lay between Sebastian and me. Best friends, enemies, comrades, bitter foes, brothers-all of these and yet they're still not enough.

In minutes, Seb had assembled the rifle and suppressor. He seemed to assemble it by touch, a few clicks here and bit of tightening there. He sighted once and rested it on the bipod.

Seb didn't sense us hiding behind him. The Sherlock-manikin moved in a macabre imitation of life. Crazily, I wanted to stop Seb from shooting it. I wanted to throw myself in front of the gun to protect the pseudo-Sherlock in 221B; or maybe I wanted to stop the Colonel before he committed this last crime.

As always that mad detective read my mind; he sensed my nervousness. He patted my hand. Christ I'm the soldier; he shouldn't be reassuring me. I hate Sherlock. I hate his superiority and the way he patronizes me. I hate his cold indifference. I hate his independence. I hate him for not loving me. I hate him for patting my hand and giving me hope.

I hate myself for the betrayal that is coming.

We waited. Sebastian spat once, an old telltale that he was nearly ready to fire. Afterwards, I needed to disable him with one shot. I had to shoot his right hand so that he couldn't shoot back. I might have to shoot the left one too; at this close range he could probably aim even with his left hand.

Or maybe I should ignore Sherlock and Chas and just put a bullet in the Colonel's head. Oh God, I can't shoot Seb. I can't shoot the Colonel, my superior officer. I can't betray him again. Even Judas only had to betray Jesus once.

Seb took the deep breath; his shoulders relaxed. I knew each movement intimately. I knew exactly what movement would come next. His head lowered fractionally. He exhaled. My finger twitched in perfect synchrony when he fired a single round. The shadow-Sherlock fell over. Target acquired. Target eliminated.

My idiot companion stepped out in front of me, blowing his cover, and blocking my shot. "Well Sebastian," Sherlock began, "We finally meet in person. I admit, that for a long time you were clever. Almost as clever as your master, James Moriarty…"

Seb was never one for pointless small talk. He was already bringing up his side arm; I started to reach under Sherlock's arm.

"Freeze Johnny, or your friend, the genius, gets it," snarled my old friend Sebastian, and he held his fire. He held his fire _for me_. "Bring the gun out slowly Johnny Hobbit."

How the bloody hell did he even know it was me? I held out my gun, loosely and stepped in front of Sherlock. "Hello Colonel," I said.

"Set the gun down, real slow Hobbit. I know you Johnny. I know all your moves. Hell, I taught you everything you know, so don't try anything," Sebastian growled. "Now slowly, slide it toward the wall. Good lad"

I felt Sherlock trying to shift away from me. I elbowed him, hard. He doubled over.

"John," gasped Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, if you move or talk at all without permission, I will shoot our little hobbit friend," said the Colonel. "Now, Johnny-boy, my feelings are hurt. Were you going to shoot me, your old friend?"

Oh God. Think. What should I do? Talk. Distract. Find an angle. "Actually you've got it all wrong Colonel. I know I screwed up bad in Afghanistan. I know you probably can't forgive me, but you know, you should have confided in me. Given me some warning. I didn't know what to do. I was wrong. I was dead wrong," I was blithering, and I blithered as fast as I could. I had no idea what I was saying. Just keep talking. Just keep the Colonel's attention on me.

The Colonel smiled at me; Christ he's smiling like we're long-lost friends. We are. Are we? Talk fast Johnny.

"You know I would have chosen you if you had given me half a chance. If you had chosen me over your boyfriend." I babbled.

"My boyfriend, my genius, is dead Johnny," he growled. OK, note to self, do not bring up Moriarty again.

"Well, my genius doesn't even care about me. Never did. He just shows up three years later saying, oh hi John, I'm not dead and let's plan to capture your best friend Sebastian." I blithered on, praying that Sherlock would follow the Colonel's orders.

Unfortunately Sherlock never follows orders. Sherlock tried to push around me. Sebastian instantly shot my arm. I gasped and grabbed my arm. I only took my eyes off Sebastian for a second; it was just a shallow wound. Ignore it.

"You alright back there Holmes?" I asked harshly through gritted teeth.

"You may answer your little friend, Mr. Holmes," said the Colonel chuckling.

"I'm fine, the bullet just grazed my arm," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry John."

"OK, now shut up Mr. Homes, or Johnny Hobbit gets it again," laughed Sebastian.

"Seb, I came to apologize." I took a step forward.

"Johnny you shouldn't have come here. I tried to spare you. You were the only one I was willing to forgive. I didn't blame you; I knew you couldn't help being Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes. It's what you always were. I admired you for it," Seb actually looked me in the eye and smiled. The gun was pointed at my chest. Sherlock was a silent presence behind me; his breath was soft on my neck. I inched forward.

"Johnny, why are you here with him." Seb pointed at Sherlock with his gun. I froze. "You know he doesn't care about you Johnny. You know he doesn't love you. He's a fuckin' genius. Geniuses don't care about grunts like us Johnny Hobbit. They use us, and then leave us."

I felt a wail building inside. It's all true. Seb is right. Sherlock doesn't care. He used me and left me. He's ready to do it again. I've given four years of my life and my heart to a stone cold statue. Sherlock only cared about other geniuses like Moriarty and that damn Woman.

The angle, this is the angle. This is how I give them all what they want.

"I know Seb. You're right. You're always right. I don't belong here with him. We're the same Seb, you and me. Remember how we were going to be soldiers of fortune together? We can still do that. We don't have to be alone anymore." I was closer, his gaze traveled down to me. I gave him my all time best patented fake smile. "You and me, Seb. You lead the way, and I'll follow."

Seb's gun pointed at my chest, and then started to swing back toward my detective.

"Seb, it doesn't have to be like this," I cried out loudly. "We should be on the same side. We are on the same side. Lets go away together, now, right now. You leave that berk alone, and maybe they won't follow. We can escape together." Sebastian seemed to waver.

This could work. I'll tie up Sherlock and then get Seb to make a run for it. I'll have saved Sherlock and kept my promise to Chas. Of course Mycroft will hunt us down before we hit Dover. That's fine; I'm expendable and it gives Seb a last chance.

Seb grabbed me by my upper arms; he pulled me up off the floor. This was unexpected. He bruised our lips together. His tongue pushed into my mouth, and oh God I wish I were dead. I have to go along with it; there is no plan B. I tried not to fight.I tried to kiss back. I tried not to sick up. He bruised my arms and kept pushing his tongue in. Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick.

I heard a feral growl and Sherlock grabbed Seb's gun arm. With one arm, the Colonel hurled Sherlock across the room. Seb raised his gun. I pulled back and head butted Sebastian. I grabbed his arm with my left hand, and we wrestled for the gun. It was no contest. It was the one armed hobbit vs. the mighty orc.

The gun went off by my ear. My left hand stayed clamped onto his gun-arm. He swung me back against the wall and plaster showered down on us. He grabbed my throat with his free hand. "Traitor." Seb screamed. "You bloody traitor, Hobbit. Bloody, fuckin' traitor." I noted that I could not hear anything from my left ear. The blast probably perforated the tympanic membrane…

Jesus wake up Watson. What the hell? I can't be in shock. Where the hell is Sherlock? Is he hurt? Is he dead?

Sherlock dead? I went from frantic to panic mode. I twisted uselessly in the Colonel's grasp; I did not dare let go of his gun arm. I was pinned against the wall by my neck.

I resorted to kicking him in his balls.

When he bent over in pain, I kneed him in the face. He let go of me, and I shoved him toward the window. His head and shoulders shattered the glass. I dropped down to one knee gasping for breath.

With a roar, Sebastian's head and torso burst back through the window, glass flew everywhere. He dropped his gun and circled my throat with both hands. I couldn't breathe; he lifted me up by my neck.

I swung my too short arms uselessly, and my vision began to blur. I remembered a lecture from Uni. The victim will lose consciousness one minute after the onset of anoxia. The brain begins to die within three minutes of anoxia. Say good night John.

It barely registered when Sherlock smashed Sebastian in the face with his doubled fists over and over saying, "Let. Him. Go." He pulled Sebastian's hands off my throat and I fell to the ground in a heap. I gasped for air. Then I felt around for the fallen Sig.

I looked up; Sherlock and Seb circled one another like a pair of wild dogs in the middle of the dark room. This was a nightmare, my friends moved in and out of the shadows intent on murdering each other. Seb's face was all bloody. Sherlock looked demented with his lips curled back and his hair flying all over the place.

"Never touch him again. Never," yelled Sherlock, his voice rough and harsh. He lunged at Sebastian.

The two of them grappled, snarling like animals. Sherlock threw Seb over his back. Seb rolled and leapt back to his feet.

"You'll never have him Holmes," raged Sebastian.

I coughed and choked. They grappled again; Sherlock had Seb by the throat. Oh God.

"No!" I croaked. I stood dizzily and took a single step before I slipped and fell. Seb's gun, I had tripped over Seb's gun. My left hand trembled: it closed clumsily around the gun. The tremor was bad.

I looked up. Seb broke Sherlock's grip and swung him aside. No! Sherlock!

"Stop it!" I choked out. They didn't hear. Hell they probably didn't care. "Sherlock!" I tried to yell. As always, he ignored me. He grunted when he and Seb slammed into each other. They fell and rolled to the other side of the room.

I was just the collateral damage. Nothing important, I'm just a dull ordinary man who dared to care about his betters. Fine, it's all fine. Sorry Chas. Sorry Sherlock. Sorry Seb. I'm so sorry for everything. I had kissed him, and like Judas, now I have to betray him.

I rose up onto my knees; I was too damn dizzy to stand. I raised the gun; the tremor stopped abruptly as I took aim. They never noticed me.

Seb pulled a knife out of his boot, his throwing knife. Sherlock had a gun, my gun? They faced each other ready to kill, ready to die, and I had to pull the trigger. I screamed. A ragged wail escaped my burning throat as I shot my best friend dead.

**A/N** Please let me know how I can improve this. I think some of the previous chapters are too long, and maybe this one is too. Let me know. The next chapter is under revision even as I finish this one. Thanks for reading my work.


	10. Chapter 10 I Live and Die for You

**A/N **references to character death and grieving.

**Ritual Disclaimer** I do not own Sherlock Holmes. This story is just for fun and clearly not for profit.

Excerpt from the end of Chapter 9

Seb pulled a knife out of his boot, his throwing knife. Sherlock had a gun, my gun? They faced each other ready to kill, ready to die, and I had to pull the trigger. I screamed. A ragged wail escaped my burning throat as I shot my best friend dead.

Chapter 10 I Live and Die for You

I gasped for breath. Do not cry. Soldiers do not cry.

What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done? Do not cry.

I would have died for him. Soldiers do not cry. I would have done almost anything to help him, but I couldn't let him hurt Sherlock Holmes.

When the Colonel pulled his knife on Sherlock, I only had seconds and I had no choice. The Colonel was deadly with that knife .I had to kill my former best friend, my Colonel, to save Sherlock Holmes because Sherlock is everything.

I didn't bother to go check Sebastian's pulse; I knew he was dead. At this range, I don't miss, not even in the dark. I know that there will be a small, round, neat hole right between Sebastian's eyes. Do not cry.

Good shot Captain Watson, don't you feel proud? Soldiers do not cry.

Sherlock however stooped and checked the body for a pulse. Then he began rifling though his pockets.

I watched my detective rushing about in a frenzy. Thank God Sherlock didn't seem to be hurt. All of my pain, all of my confusion is worth it because Sherlock Holmes is alive. I will not show him any tears; he wouldn't approve, and he wouldn't understand. Besides, soldiers do not cry.

In the end, I really never had any choice at all.

* * *

I was going to kill Moran. I was going to rip him limb from limb, then stomp on his face. He was going to pay for nearly stealing my blogger away. He was going to pay with his life for even touching John, let alone kissing him. And as for choking John, death might not be good enough. Moran should have to suffer. Luckily, I've had lots of practice killing people over the last three years. I might try snapping his neck…

Moran, hideous with his bleeding, his scar and his manic leer, circled me. Luckily, John was well out-of-the-way near the windows. I could hear his wheezing and his attempts at shouting; they reassured me that he still lived.

Moran and I fought to the death over my John. It was a savage fight. I don't remember either of us speaking. I only remember grunts and growls and snarls. I had never felt this much raw hatred, not even for James Moriarty. John Watson was mine and Moran would die.

Then Moran fell backwards, dead. I was stunned for a moment. When I came up close, I saw the bullet wound, right between his eyes. I checked to ensure that he was dead. I felt an overwhelming fury that my prey had escaped me by dying. I ripped though his pockets for evidence or ID's but only found toothpicks, cigarettes and a cheap lighter.

I turned enraged to look at Sebastian's executioner. John knelt on the floor, hunched over the gun in his lap. I couldn't read him. I couldn't read his face or feelings.

There were some things about John that were easy to read. Even in the dark I could read his exhaustion and list his injuries: torn ear-how did it get injured? it is bleeding significantly perhaps dangerously so; a scalp wound behind the damaged ear-ditto; wheezing and coughing from near strangulation, minor bullet wound in his left arm- negligible blood loss; broken arm and head laceration from earlier this evening. Assessment multiple traumas, significant blood loss. Cannot rule out internal injuries or possible neck injuries.

But I cannot read his emotions. I do not know where I stand with John now. He offered himself to Sebastian Moran. He offered to escape with the insane assassin.

John allowed himself to be kissed by the monster. Yet I know that he was repulsed by the kiss. At the time, I could easily read John's distress and aversion to the assault. John was rigid in the monster's embrace; his fists were tightly clenched, and his head was turning away involuntarily. His entire body shook. Why didn't he fight back?

I don't know how to approach my blogger, my friend, and the idiot who almost got himself killed.

I charged over to him. I wanted to pick him up and cradle him. I wanted to kiss him back. I wanted to slap him for getting hurt and especially for kissing Moran.

"John you're an idiot; what the hell were you thinking? Don't answer; you weren't thinking," I yelled angry and frightened. I used my scarf to try to stem the bleeding from his mangled ear and the scalp wound. Upon close inspection the scalp wound is from a bullet. Obvious, the gun fired once during the scuffle between John and Moran. The bullet tore through John's ear and across his scalp. Another inch and John would very probably have died. I fought off panic at the very thought.

"What made you offer to run off with Moran? What the hell possessed you to let him kiss you? I told you to stay back and follow…"

"Shut up. Just shut up Sherlock. You were the one who stepped in front of me, you," John punched a finger painfully into my chest, "you blocked my shot. I told you not to block my shot." John stood, swayed and sat back down heavily.

"And let go of my head; you're making it hurt," I did not lessen the pressure over his wounds. "Just so you know, Mr. Genius, you had about twenty to thirty seconds to live once he raised his gun. I had to distract him. I would have done anything; I would have promised him anything to keep you from dying again. You got that? I will not watch you die again," John screamed hoarsely at the end of his tirade.

John's outburst calmed me. I know this John. This is the angry and overprotective John, and I want to help him. I steadied John by grasping his shoulder. This is a friendly, comradely and comforting gesture to use with John. I know this because I have researched friendships and relationships on the Internet.

"You really would have gone with him?" I asked, holding his shoulder.

John pursed his lips, "Yes, of course. If it meant keeping you safe," John met my eyes, but his dark eyes were still unreadable. "I didn't want to go but it was the only way I could think of to keep faith with you and Chas. Don't frown at me. I know we probably wouldn't have made it to Dover before Mycroft killed us, but that was acceptable. Same goes for the kiss since you brought it up."

"I'd kiss a crocodile if it kept you alive, you idiot," John muttered. Then he picked up steam again, "And, and I suppose you have a problem with me shooting him? Well he had his knife out, and you had about another twenty seconds before it was lodged in your chest. Believe you me, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I may not be a bloody genius like you, but I know the Colonel and he was about to kill you. And so I had to kill him before he killed you. I had to kill him, God forgive me; I had to kill him."

I quickly reassessed the data. John did not lie; he can not lie to me. He didn't want to go with Moran. He didn't want to kiss Moran. He wanted to protect me. I still have John.

I looked down at my blogger. For an instant, I could read the pain in John's face. His mouth pursed and tightened, his brow furrowed and his eyes glittered with unshed tears. Then he froze his face again with that unreadable neutral look. I had to reach John somehow.

"Calm yourself John. I am grateful for your assistance…" I stopped at the wide-eyed, outraged look on my blogger's face. "Let me rephrase that, thank you John for saving my life, twice at least tonight. He was your friend at one time; this was hard for you. I feel, I want…just thank you John for choosing me." I squeezed his shoulder again, perhaps harder than I had intended because I saw him wince.

"I didn't just choose you a few minutes ago, you idiot. There was never a choice,"

I was confused. John didn't want me?

John continued, "Sherlock I live and die for you and if you don't know that by now, then you aren't such a genius after all." John leaned towards me. A small half-smile tugged at his lips. "In other words, I chose you a long, long time ago. You're my best friend, you're every..." John shook his head.

"I just don't know what Chas will think; he'll be so disappointed in me."

"I doubt that John, I seriously doubt that. I'm sure he would have understood," I said taking John's weight against my shoulder. "I think I understand John." He looked up at me, his brows raised in questioningly. His eyes twinkled with a hint of my old emotional blogger.

"It's going to be alright John, I promise, " I said, holding him close. It was perhaps too close for comrades but surely it is acceptable for best friends and partners.

John must have agreed because he did not pull away. I vowed that I would make it alright, for us both.

I heard the police charging up the stairs, I foresaw explanations and lectures. John is not up for that. He needs to be cared for. I texted Mycroft and requested his assistance. Mycroft could quickly get John into hospital and away from the police, at least until John was stronger.

I abhor asking Mycroft for anything, but I would have asked the devil himself for help for John's sake. After all, I live and die for John.

The End of Nonplussed

**A/N** The story will be continued in The Further Adventures of a Blogger and his Detective (or some better title) in the near future. Thank you to everyone who read this and for all the reviews and encouragement that you gave me.


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